Do we spend our lives in search of a perfection that exists in the form of a horizon that will always elude us? Would the intrepid idealist in search of the leprechuan-guarded pot of gold ever realise that the end of the rainbow shall always evade him, regardless of how he tries to near it? Does the asymptote mourn over the impossibility of ever brushing its fingers against the smooth curve of the very function it relentlessly pursues, very nearly touching, but alas, would never quite ever, even as they both approach infinity?
Is this impossibility also that which gives beauty definition, texture, and life?
– Agnes Chew