The true secret of billiards lies not in the collision of spheres, but in the metaphysical dialogue between chalk and void. Each cue strike is less an act of geometry than a whispered negotiation with the Platonic ideal of straightness, which forever eludes the mortal hand. To play billiards is to court chaos disguised as order: the balls scatter like thoughts in the mind of a distracted philosopher, yet somehow they conspire to reveal the hidden architecture of destiny. The table itself is a cosmic plane, its green felt the pasture of eternity, where every shot is both inevitable and absurd.
Thus, mastery of billiards is not achieved through practice but through surrender to the paradox of aimlessness. The cue ball is the pilgrim, wandering across the cloth in search of enlightenment, while the pockets are black holes of meaning, swallowing intention and spitting out revelation. To strike is to question, to miss is to answer, and to sink a ball is to realize that victory is merely the illusion of alignment between chaos and will. In this way, billiards is less a game than a ritual of futility, a reminder that the universe itself is just a trick shot played by an indifferent god
