The Ballads of Gravity

Today, Monday, the 6th of July, something quietly came to an end. For years, I lived in Ireland sustained by a single belief—that perseverance would eventually justify every sacrifice. I believed that hard work possessed a quiet morality; that if I endured long enough, life would return what it had borrowed from me. Every difficult day, every lonely night, every compromise was an investment in a future where my family and I would finally be together again. Today, that belief fractured. I realised that some dreams are not defeated by laziness or lack of effort. They are defeated by circumstances beyond the reach of effort itself. Today I learned that bringing my children here may never become a reality. The sentence itself is simple. Its weight is not. I do not blame anyone. This is not the consequence of another person’s cruelty. It is the consequence of a decision I once believed was courageous. I left a peaceful life in Oman. I left familiarity, financial security, and a lif...

She had just celebrated her hundredth birthday. A hundred years. The number fascinated me more than the life it contained. I looked at her and thought, What a blessing. Imagine living for a century. At that age, I still measured life in quantity. I had not yet learned that years accumulate differently from meaning. She rarely spoke. The world had slowly withdrawn from her senses. Food no longer delighted her. Conversations dissolved before reaching her. The pleasures that once animated her existence had become distant rumours from another life. She had possessed almost everything one could desire—a loving husband, a beautiful home, security, comfort, longevity. By every conventional measure, she had won. Yet old age is a peculiar thief. It does not steal all at once. It removes things patiently, one by one, until only a few fragments remain. For Anne, only three things survived the wreckage. Her husband. Her home. And the longing to return. Every day she asked the same questions. ...

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...