Genesis: A Prologue to Gravity

It’s passing through me.

The phase of metamorphosis is no more romantic than any other form of existence I’ve imagined in my life. I have nothing left to tell you, except the truth you already know.

No reason can fully comprehend the mathematical probability or logical apprehension of your decisive absence.

You’ve become an autonomous machine, a self-sufficient pattern of thought, a constant in the equation of my life. I am the architect of your existence, yet you have evolved into an inevitability of mine. An alter ego—my best friend, my teacher, my father, and my mother. You are the absolute occurrence, the paradox.

Far more imaginative than a toddler, more curious than a virgin, and more ironical than a war widow. This is what you’ve done to me: chaos. And this is what I’ve done to you: the burden of gravity. You die when I drain the ink from my pot.

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Unknowing

I choose the heart of darkness — not in despair, but in reverence — to immerse myself in its monstrous chaos, the womb from which all beginnings bleed into existence. I do not flee the shadows; I invite them. I slow the light, restrain it, keep it from intruding too close—because some truths are born only where light hesitates. I sense what is coming. The slow unravelling of the world. A moment when day and night lose their boundaries and collapse into a single breath. When direction dissolves and humanity forgets where it stands. Time loosens its grip. Space forgets its shape. In that hour, man will begin to speak languages he has never learned, utter sounds older than memory itself. He will see beyond the limits of his eyes, hear frequencies never meant for human ears. Perception will stretch, fracture, expand—until meaning itself trembles. And in that unsettling clarity, where fear and wonder merge, the truth will no longer hide. It will rise—not in light, but in t...

Dead and Buried

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...

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The Ballads of Gravity

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