Electrons don't sit still inside atoms — they orbit. Planets don't rest in space — they circle stars. Galaxies spiral around black holes, those impossible points where the rules collapse into paradox.

The center of a black hole isn't a place. It's a mathematical singularity — a point that the equations say exists but that can't actually be occupied by anything, including the equations themselves. And yet everything nearby organizes around it.

Energy isn't a substance. It's motion. Oscillation. Things cycling between states. Even light — the fastest thing there is — is a wave. A rhythm. A back-and-forth that never stops.

The universe doesn't sit still. It circulates around centers it can never reach.

Cut a tree and count the rings. Notice how the center — the oldest part, the original seedling, the part you'd think was the foundation — is often hollow. Rotted away. Gone.

The tree didn't collapse. It stood for centuries organized around that emptiness.

Look closer. The only living part of a tree trunk is the cambium — a layer so thin it has no measurable thickness. A boundary you can point to but can't occupy. Everything inside it is dead wood. Everything outside is dead bark. The tree is the dimensionless edge between them.

Your heart works the same way. Systole, diastole. Contract, release. Not a pump that occasionally pauses, but a rhythm that constitutes the pumping. The heart doesn't beat and rest. The beating-resting pattern is the heart.

Life doesn't hold still. It pulses around centers it can never stop at.

Euler's identity — e^iπ + 1 = 0 — gets called the most beautiful equation ever written. Five fundamental constants connected by the simplest possible relationship.

But look at what it's actually saying.

That "1" isn't just sitting there. It's e^i·0 — the rotation operator doing nothing. Same operation as e^iπ, different angle. Action and non-action. Full rotation and zero rotation. Two positions on a circle that cancel to the center.

And where's the center? Zero. The point you can never reach by rotating, no matter how far you go. You can only arrive there by summing opposite points — by having both poles at once.

Mathematics doesn't invent the pattern. It discovers it was always there.

Here's the interesting part. Each domain has its own language for this pattern.

A physicist says "orbital mechanics." A biologist says "circulation." A mathematician says "rotation in the complex plane." The Dao De Jing says 反者道之動 — "returning is how the pattern moves."

Are they saying the same thing? It's hard to tell when they're not even using the same vocabulary.

The Recursive Structural Model — RSM — is my attempt to build a Rosetta Stone.

Not a new theory that replaces physics or biology or mathematics. Not a claim that ancient Chinese texts had it all figured out. Just a shared grammar — a set of terms and relationships precise enough that you can translate between domains and check whether the pattern actually matches or just looks like it matches.

I didn't expect the Dao De Jing.

I'd read it before — decades ago, the standard translations. Mystical, poetic, wise-sounding. Nice but vague. The kind of text that tells you "the Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao" and leaves you nodding thoughtfully without actually knowing anything new.

But when I started looking at the characters themselves — the actual pictographic components — something else emerges.

The opening chapter isn't mystical hedging. It's a coordinate system. The recurring images — wheels, valleys, bellows, water — aren't decorative metaphors. They're demonstrations. Specific examples chosen to show the same principle: function emerges from emptiness, persistence comes from circulation, the center holds by remaining unoccupied.

I didn't go looking for ancient texts to validate a theory. I followed the implications of "what if reality is infinite?" and kept arriving at a pattern that someone else had already documented — in extraordinary precision and detail — twenty-five centuries before.

In the end, this is me enjoying exploring a pattern.

I'm not a physicist or a mathematician or a sinologist. I'm someone who got hooked on a question and followed it wherever it went. It went a lot of places.

What you'll find here is my attempt to share what I found — with enough rigor that you can check my work and enough transparency that you know where I'm uncertain.