Infinity

There are different kinds of infinity.
I only know of two and yet they seem so dull. What kind of infinity, I wonder, do I seek, that stretches beyond words?
Real numbers. They can be counted, defined, but they have to start somewhere and then go on forever.
A Menger sponge. A concept, an idea of a thing that in its final form can only exist in thought. No volume, only one dimension. But its surface is endless, and has no beginning nor end.
I've realised what is real - what is infinity to me, as I wrote those two short definitions. It is something that begins, somewhere, somehow, but has no end, and never will end. Something that never begins cannot exist.

I know not how to express imagination. It too is infinite, at least in theory. This is why I strive to be a writer. I want to define my own imagination. But is it possible to define it? Something so fluid and passionate and so full of energy, of creation?
My imagination, my mind, all minds - have no beginning and no end. They simply are.
How can I prove the existence of this uncountable infinity? Can we see beyond the surface?
How can I not grasp purer thought and yet live with its existence?
I want to know knowledge, but all the pursuit brings is loneliness.
I mustn't be so melodramatic. I may not know now, but by the stars I will have it yet.