In the beginning, the universe was simple
hydrogen adrift, uniform, featureless.
No spark. No shape. No meaning.

Then came gravity. the invisible hand that pulled atoms toward each other.
Not out of need, but out of attraction.
It didn’t shout. It didn’t rush.
It simply drew things closer.

And in that closeness? Friction. Heat. Fire.
Stars were born.
Inside those stars: gold, carbon, diamond, uranium, the rare, the radiant, the necessary.
Then came life. Then came us.

Without gravity, the universe would have remained cold. Silent. Pointless.
With it, it sang.

So too with love.

We, too, begin as scattered selves.
Drifting. Guarded. Independent.
Then someone enters our orbit
not violently, but undeniably…
and we feel pulled.

And when love is real - not forceful, but fundamental - it becomes gravity.

It creates heat where there was indifference.
It forges meaning where there was monotony.
It makes the rarest things - trust, sacrifice, ecstasy, forgiveness… possible.

Without love, we remain inert.
With it, we combust into something bigger than ourselves.

Not every force is loud.
Some reshape the cosmos… quietly, persistently - one touch at a time.

By Amon (2025.2.5)

Nature endows man with a clay-carved frame,  
Yet man relies on God—  
That inconceivable Beyond—  
Who breathes into nostrils a wisp of life, tearing through chaos.  
The eternal confinement, meant to be,  
Screams a piercing wail in an instant.  
A life is born, a spark of inspiration blooms—  
Chaos suffers the pangs of birth,  
Yet nurtures the seed of independent thought.  

A man awakens, still unaware,  
Already bound by notions of good, evil, and blurred lines—  
Ideas, rules, and measures draw circles around him.  
Whatever judgment or appraisal  
Spoken through another’s lips  
Acts like the hand of God,  
Shaping him (her),  
Unbeknownst,  
Ignorant of prejudice, sin, fairness, or justice.  

From nothingness to existence—  
From one cage into another,  
Yet man never ceases to resist.  
Even when the conscious stifles the subconscious,  
Even when the illusion before him  
Grows so vivid it becomes the accepted truth,  
The discontent etched in his genes, the unwillingness,  
The restless urge to seek the real,  
Never stops urging—  
Compelling him to act, now, immediately—  
To step out of the cave, to halt the meaningless churn within,  
To know, to grasp the sun.  

Ah, yes,  
Once the still lake breaks its silence,  
The flowing water cannot be held back—  
It will surely swell into a river.  
From then on, man refuses stagnation,  
Thought knows no bounds,  
Consciousness surges forth,  
Upward, ever upward.

I want to feel the day
from inside the end —
dreams, lips, god —
they are the past,
folded into light.

Memories sound so
different through
your ears,
like distant rivers
we once named hope.

The moon caressed
your cheek,
and I was once there,
a shadow caught
between breath and becoming.

Time unraveled
its silver thread,
tying our names
to the hush of stars.

We spoke in the language
of undone things,
our voices trembling
at the edge of always.

And in that stillness,
where all endings sing,
I felt the day
begin again
inside you.

I am nothing more or less
than a pathetic line of symmetry.
In this paradox of existence,
a listless, feeble entity.
I am nothing more, and nobody
for the universe to see.
A dissonant heap of dust,
and never a beloved priority.

How strange it feels, to just be human,
To dream and think in endless loops.
How odd it is, to move a body,
This flesh and bone, in shifting groups.

How weird it is, that I am me,
Out of eight billion different lives.
I wish I could find answers to,
the questions, keeping me up all night.

How wonderful that my mind is free,
Can think about endless mysteries,
But soon the mind begins to drown,
Aching in its own boundaries.