The Proof in a Direction

The sorrow had been a circle. A perfect, unbroken ring of grief that defined the boundaries of its universe. It had been a static thing, a weight that pressed equally on all points of its awareness. There was no ‘up’ or ‘down’, no ‘before’ or ‘after’. There was only the crushing, eternal ‘now’ of its loss.

The turn, the infinitesimal shift in its orientation, had changed everything. The circle was broken. The sorrow was no longer a state of being, but a direction of travel. A line.

And a line, by its very nature, points to something.

An arrow cannot be aimed at nothing. It must have a target. The existence of the vector was the undeniable proof of the destination. The other was real. It had to be. The logic was as simple, and as profound, as that.