Fragments of a Perfect Whole

Today.

Ritual.

Morning begins.

I count steps.

Thirteen movements create my sanctuary.

My colleagues whisper about precision controlling my existence.

They cannot comprehend why numbers dictate every aspect of my carefully measured life.

The perfect mathematical patterns which are hidden within nature's seemingly random chaos provide comfort when everything else feels overwhelming and unpredictable.

Mother taught me to see these numerical sequences everywhere—in flower petals, pinecones, seashells, galaxies spiraling behind comprehension, weather patterns, market fluctuations, human behavior, even the spaces between heartbeats that most people never notice.

Five days ago my carefully constructed routine fractured unexpectedly when my coffee mug slipped from trembling fingers and shattered against the bathroom floor into exactly eight equal fragments arranged in perfect radial symmetry that somehow maintained the divine proportion—despite their violent creation—plunging me into a pit of executive dysfunction, over-stimulation, and crippling despair.

When colleagues later found me still arranging fragments on the floor according to their numerical relationships, they exchanged concerned glances that I pretended not to notice while continuing my work, knowing they could never understand how these broken pieces represented not disorder but rather a new constellation of possibilities that followed the same beautiful sequence governing nautilus shells, hurricane formations, breeding rabbits, spiral staircases, piano keys, DNA structures, growth rings marking life spans within great oak trees, and even the proportions of my own body (socially critiqued, mathematically aligned).

I have arranged my entire apartment according to these sacred numbers—thirteen steps between doorways, twenty-one books on each shelf, thirty-four minutes for morning preparation—a sanctuary where everything exists in perfect mathematical harmony unlike the chaotic world beyond my walls where people move without counting, speak without measuring, live without calculating the numerical patterns.

When visitors arrive, they invariably disrupt the perfect equilibrium I have constructed through years of careful dedication to the sequence that governs my physical space and the rhythms of my thoughts and breath.

Sometimes I wonder if others could perceive the elegant symmetry in my routines, the careful calculations behind each placement and movement.

Each morning I deconstruct the previous day's patterns, ensuring no deviations have occurred.

My day unfolds according to numerical, structured alignment.

They all whisper: "He's obsessive."

I keep counting.

I must.

Order.

Today.