Four-Fifths

Sometimes I think I am half of half of parts of parts of everything I have seen, done and known. Little bits of all that I love and hate make up the far-from-whole that appears when I look in. Fractions of fractions of fractions of refractions distort what once was into what is now, incomplete still, and unrecognizable save for the fraction of a fraction that remains stalwart and unchanged. How small need the fractions of fractions be, asks Theseus, before they are fractions of fractions of fractions of nothing at all?

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The idea of the whole is, surprisingly, more difficult to accept. When you add fractions of fractions of fractions together, the impact of each is felt lesser as more addends long for impacts to be felt. The more parts there are, the less there is, and fractions of fractions of fractions always felt backwards to me. How can being surrounded by so many more make one so much smaller? There is joy in being small, though, since being whole means there is nothing else to see, do, or know. How many fractions of fractions of fractions must make up the whole before each part is nothing at all, and the whole is just a hole?