I’m tired of playing a scientist.

The letters of all the questions, the guesses, experiments and conclusions stamp themselves into my brain.

It’s easy, the way my finger flips on the lights, letting the hum into my head as I tend to my beakers, muttering about potential solutions to the problems I can touch.

It’s all I can do to not look down at the ink and graphite smudged against my hand while breathing in the air gone stale with fear and regret.

And I’m tired of masquerading as a mathematician.

The variables in all the equations, the theories, calculations and answers work their way into the inside of my eyelids.

It’s automatic, counting the way I’ve learned to by jumping backwards from the hundreds, my fingers loose and limber from the sting of checking and rechecking what should be correct

It’s all I can muster to get it all right, because to be wrong by a literal fraction would surely mean weeks of embarrassment.

And I hate being a historian.

The books and photographs and movie reels find their way into my heart in the night, arteries clogged with what should be ash, if not dust

It’s tragic, how important the information is in the anecdotes written by various hands, some of them my own.

It’s all I can hope to ensure that the yellowed pages and faded time shape how I see the science, those abundant and precious scenarios, and come up with the formulas for the success that flits between my fingers.

I will never stop.

With love to the scientists, mathematicians, and historians of the world,

The Curator of the Museum