A single line bends. At first, it seems simple, harmless even. But look closer, and the curve begins to unfold its secrets. It coils inward, arcs outward, and twists upon itself in ways that suggest something far greater than the eye can see. In that curve lies infinity, not as a distant horizon, but as a rhythm we are already living.

I hold a seashell in my hand, tracing its spiral with my fingertip. Its surface is smooth, cool, and alive with ridges that mark the passage of time, tiny waves frozen in form. Each curve is a miniature galaxy, a condensation of oceans, wind, and light into a perfect swirl. The infinite, I realise, is not far away. It is here, folded into something small enough to cradle in one palm.

The spiral is motion itself. It draws inward, toward a centre, and outward, into an endless expansion. Nature is full of these curves, the curl of a fern leaf, the spiral of a snail’s shell, the twisting clouds of a hurricane, the helical coils of DNA, the galaxies spinning in silent grandeur. Infinity is not abstract. It is built into the very geometry of life.

Time, we like to think, is a straight arrow: birth, growth, death. But the spiral teaches otherwise. It curves, loops, and returns. We encounter the same emotions, the same lessons, over and over, each time with subtle changes, each time seen from a different angle. Yesterday is mirrored in today, and today folds into tomorrow. Life is not a line; it is a spiral staircase winding through experiences, relationships, and choices.

The curve is patient. Growth is not linear, learning is not finite, and understanding does not arrive all at once. Each turn reveals something new, even when it seems familiar. The infinite is embedded in repetition, in revisiting, in deepening. What seems ordinary now may later reveal itself as extraordinary when seen in the light of a completed loop.

The spiral also teaches release. Its outward expansion carries away energy that cannot be held, merging the personal with the universal. Memories, joy, grief, all follow the spiral, stretching beyond immediate perception yet returning in echoes. The curve is both container and conduit, holding and dispersing simultaneously.

And so, I turn the shell again in my hand. Each ridge, each twist, is a reminder that infinity is not distant; it is already within us, coiled in every gesture, every thought, every breath. To trace the curve is to touch eternity, to move with it, to understand that life’s pattern is neither random nor straight, but spiralling, endlessly, beautifully.

Infinity is in the curve. And we are already inside it.

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