The Ballads of Gravity

We all leave something behind—not by accident, but for a reason we don’t fully understand. As though some cosmic law silently demands it of us. And we obey, unknowingly, yet unfailingly. We, fragile creatures, live not just to exist, but to leave traces of that existence—marks etched in time, invisible perhaps, but undeniably real. We come into this world incomplete, having left a piece of ourselves elsewhere. When we first take the shape of a foetus in the womb, something essential is set aside. And when we die, we don’t simply vanish; we begin a journey back—to retrieve what was once ours, what we unknowingly surrendered. But even in that act of return, we leave more behind. Our lives are full of quiet departures. A moment. A glance. A word. Our love lingers. Our memories settle into the corners of rooms. Our shadows remain stretched across places we’ve passed through. Our presence clings to people in subtle, haunting ways. Sometimes we leave behind dreams never fulfilled, words nev...

Everyone claims a place under the sun—a purpose, a soul, a meaning assigned and accepted. I reject the comfort of that claim. What you call purpose is often conditioning in disguise; what you call identity is repetition rehearsed over generations. I do not pity the soul. The soul does not suffer—it is not bound, not owned, not defined. I pity the life that submits to being shaped, reduced, and disciplined by the machinery of society. You call it culture. You call it tradition. You call it belonging. I call it compliance refined into virtue. Man does not become—he conforms. He inherits a past and kneels before it. He calls it legacy, but it is fear—fear of stepping beyond what has already been approved. Tradition, when it refuses movement, becomes a prison that celebrates its own walls. And the most dangerous prisons are the ones that teach you to decorate your chains. Do not misunderstand me—I am not against all tradition. I am against that which arrests thought, that which suffocates ...