Math problems usually don't use imagination, but physics has been helped by reflective similes when the math is correct.

SPIRIT
It seems my reality is connected to 'Abdu'l-Baha and Baha'u'llah inasmuch as I recite their words.  Also, the Bab.  Perhaps too Muhammad inasmuch as I obey Hadith and read the Qur'an.  Is my lack of reality really God? What does it mean to be God's servant but not His son? That seriousness born of the Seal of the Prophets? Or, that seriousness born of irresponsibility and wickedness? What can come from mere presence? "This cyclic scheme is to Him but a stare." Thoughts of Hindu statues of the gods and goddesses. Yes, the spiritual reality doesn't work for me at command. It doesn't entertain me either. It usually requires some input to show me anything.

MIND
That lack of any changing form going through my mind. Thoughts of a previous text and its sender. Conversations via text. The heart feels betrayed by a friend for not showing up. Memories of my friend's neighborhood. Anything of substance except the interactions I have on my phone and the memories which our words and persons reveal? Do I have any unconscious left? Anything hiding? Fears of reincarnation. Anxiety about work due to not staying in the "now". Unfulfilled plans of society. Is there anyone coming to my Group of Silence devotional? Odds unlikely. Alone on Zoom.

The conviction of medication and meditation, which changed my D's and F's into A's and B's in college. My lack of use of the knowledge I gained. Still hopeful of discovering some new form of mathematics, even if on my deathbed - I'm guessing around 80 if I keep smoking.

"There is no pain you are receding" and "*******" whisper in my mind. "Comfortably numb" - it seems like the highest spiritual state, but a state of incapacity for the investigating mind. "Is there anybody in there?" A German seven that looks like kanji.

BODY
Maybe a serious eye? Those eyes with nothing to do. Can a mirror not truly tell me about myself? For what information can come from a blank stare? A ****** in the nose. A worry-filled stare. One ear a little pulled out due to wearing COVID masks. I haven't trimmed my beard for five days. I haven't gotten a new face. My eyes are the same color. My hair, not darker nor lighter. The bags under my eyes betrays youths. My distinguished, yet still rounded cheeks. My beard hides my ****-chin. My less distinguished jaw, ovalish but with a point. Those searching eyes. A neck with so much stress built up that I unconsciously twist and crack it. Memory of the first time it spasmed. Vitamin care. Laundry drying. It must be this blank stare that is highest of high, that can be low, low.  I rub my scalp to ease muscle tension. I think about aligning my chakras, but a blank stare seems more worthwhile.

I consider smoking a touch of nutmeg, but I'm concerned how anxious it will make me, and how I lack ability in communication afterwards. I make coffee, a caffeine high will do. The cream gives me comfort. The workers getting off work add to my austerity. All those songs stored in neurons of my brain, waiting to be plugged-in. Somehow old rock songs from the 70's give me a place.

Now that beautiful lady appears to me saying "come, come" or rather "***, ***". I was so empty of everything, and she now fills my brain with connections to desire. I give in to the pressure and put a small dob of nutmeg on the end of my cigarette. Not enough for a full high, but just a little joy. Now there is experience and experiencer, not just a blank stare.

I can see my *** stare. I am as a baby in my mother's arms, I am so irresponsible. My body is a temple, with rooms, that I'm somehow detached from as if I'm in a dream witnessing it. Now I swim in this temple but I am not its fullness. I am not its command. I am no longer the tree but the twig. I am this plant called nutmeg. This is my vibration - pharmaceutical.

My buzz cut portrays a Buddhist monk's sitting. My coworker cut off all her hair once. Is she monkish as well? My body, as a sitter, full of reflection, why is this such an archetype? Does it know all, no, it only knows one, me. Is that all I am required of? To know simply me. Is there anything of depth in me?

Repose in my eye. I think of the faithful not under the influence. Have I missed a spark of truth which I would've found? My browline reminds me of a Klingon. So aggressive. I rock back and forth and around and around. I'm mixing this tonic drink in my skull. Is my body too full and big for my neck and head? how much does it matter? When will I do my next ab workout?

Memories of doing nutmeg, the cool let down off the high. The feeling it will never really subside.  Moving around in my seat like a Sufi dancer. Looking like I'm a ghost in the machine. The wetness of the white in my eye portrays tears of passion for Chloe. The residue of oil on my brow and cheek portrays sweating out the nutmeg.

My chrome dome and short beard remind me of a wizard, rather of my high school physics teacher. Science seems like wizardry at times. Contorting my face with my hands shows all sorts of masks: Asian clown and Cabbage Patch doll. Pressing on my forehead makes me look Romulan. Contorting my nose to a pig's or what I see as an English nobleman.

My head swings around like a medieval flail. Like I'm in a roller coaster. Like an Indian in devotion. Like a magician performing an act. Like a wolf ripping apart its prey. Like the monks who hit their heads with boards in "Camelot": "Oh ee eh Oh dominae, Oh ee eh Oh requi eh". Coming to the conclusion that the body doesn't change so quickly that it can by observed. But when I consciously change it, similitudes appear from memory.

CONCLUSION
Is all observation a metaphor or simile? Or, judgment and reason made out of a group of observations? Math is made from first geometry: a basic point, and then a line. Math is a physical reality, or abstractions from basic physical reality. Therefore, speaking merely in basic simile is also an abstraction from physical reality.

All there is is the physical.  Mind is due to my frontal lobe. Spirit is reduced to feeling, even if transcending regular feeling - mere EMF pattern of the body.

Math is switching always between calculation and visualization.
Usually more time is spent understanding how to do a problem than actually calculating them.

"I just graduated from high school, what should I do now?"
There are some things to consider first.
1. Muhammad, pbuh, said that no one can take away the knowledge you're destined to have.
2. Self-directed learning is the highest form of knowledge, and in India the highest recognized scholars are self-taught.
3. There are free courses, videos, and lessons online in every field often done by some of the brightest minds, and textbooks for sale online.
4. Study one course or book at a time. Separate books that require study from books just for fun.
5. If you decide to go down this path, know that it is governed by motivation and this can change direction, often in conflict with true will, so be patient. Sometimes it can take years to finish a book.
6. I knew none of this when I was your age.

The details are supposed to merge with the general branch of knowledge.
The general branch is where the "notes are played" as I see fit - the imagination comes alive.
All other branches meet at the trunk, the mind and heart, where the One exists.

Just awareness.

Thoughts too deep to be fathomed on the surface.
Such as "woman" which alludes mere objective reality.
It employs the heart, which gives only desirous and love thoughts, which even more so alludes singularity, but rather a memory of 10,000 women's pictures are categorized by the brain.
This in itself is taxing for any outer organization.
It is done by the brain by simply pulling out the latest woman on my mind.
The mind an old house of files and recordings which can't all be accessed, and when I write that the master of the house says "but here" and shows me a random memory.
Proving only that a random record can be accessed.

Why must love start to be forbidden by age differences, work settings, and lifestyle differences?
Doesn't love have any sense?
Her eyes are inviting and her body is youthful and vital.
A ripe peach.
The heart is so material, more than the brain.
The brain reasons, gives levels, and categorizes.
The heart simply loves.
It is sheer feeling.
The deepest seat of imagination.
Can she "feel my heart beating" in my wish that she was happy, that my love could be expressed?
Does she "feel the same, or am I only dreaming?"
The heart has such lasting imaginations.
They consume the attention and won't allow it to wander away.
The heart laughs because the eyes are mere spectators of the heart.
The heart says "I am reality".
It's more immune to observations, it is harder to change its interests.

My heart must cling to another heart every night, and my body sometimes adulterizes the heart I hold so dear.
I'm never alone in the imagination of the heart.

True love feels the same whether it is shared or not.
It makes the blood pump a little harder, and blush with joy.
The difference is its materialization.
Once love materializes the desire is met with responsibility.
The truest heart is the one that has consummated the least love.

Maybe when the brain is most fundamental, the neuron groups respond in the most redundant way.
The back of the brain receives energy, the side lobes transmit thoughts, the central core is silent, the frontal lobe is afraid to erupt without reason.
The heart desires love, the ******- *******, the stomach-food, and the palate-wetness.
The body containing many rooms dedicated to different functions, where I am the observer of all of them.
Each room a mechanical device operating in autonomy.
And me with the reflective capacity to witness it work.