Mathematical Pain

Every day is a rotation
on the complex plane.
Everything moves just a bit
in predictably changing vectors,
all progress reversed
and redone,
so many times it's forgettable
if you don't bother to count.
It's derivative.
No matter where I run
the distance remains,
two plus two is still four,
sounds don't change meaning.
No matter how high I climb
only the X axis awaits me,
and numbers don't even care
if I'm about to puke.
I think I liked it better
when things were simple
and whole
and natural
and one digit.
When did life get so out of hand.
Where did all these
variables come from.
Now I can't even count to three
without going through
several infinities squared.
But such is pi.