Einstein searched for the universe in geometry.
He followed the paths of light and curvature, but eventually stepped off the trail he had paved, pulled toward something more abstract—an unseen symmetry hiding behind the known. He chased a thought, something ineffable, through abstract mathematics, as if symbolic language might offer relief for a life spent searching for meaning.
If the lens of the colonizer was one of singular perspective—narrow, linear, exacting, controlled—then imagine a lens that shatters. Not in destruction, but in transformation. A lens rebuilt as a kaleidoscope, honoring the art of rotation. In that rotation, each fragment becomes a spectrum of light, each sliver revealing a different truth. A spectrum of human feeling, perception, and experience—scattered and finally allowed to shine.
How strange and beautiful that we live inside something with an atmosphere, as if Earth herself is wrapped in a veil of sky, encased in a kind of heaven. And yet, we make life hell. We poison the gift, forget the offering. We have the ingredients for paradise—air, water, warmth, presence—yet we wait. We wait for someone to tell us how to live, when all we need is one another: the people, the mass, the energy unified in a single breath of truth.
If we had purpose woven into our rotations, if the months sang with rhythm and the seasons remembered their reasons, what might life become? I wonder what celebration looked like before it was commercialized—before pressure replaced presence. There was a time when holidays were valves of the heart, letting in and out the flow of iron in walking human form. A time when we danced not for display but for unification, for remembrance of land and cycle and light.
Are we not what gives energy back to the Earth? We vibrate. We energize. We shimmer with potential, even when no one's looking. We are, perhaps, the singularities of our own selves—points of infinite density, the entire cosmos collapsed into breath and body, shining through like a pupil in an eye. The observer. The witness. The one who sees.
Could not our thoughts be antimatter? Our internal worlds—those strange, electrical, elusive territories—holding space opposite the waking world? If the seen is matter, perhaps the felt is antimatter: private, profound, and perfectly real. And what if, when our thoughts meet action, we create annihilation—not in destruction, but in alchemy? A release of energy so pure it becomes rebirth. What if each moment of clarity, each act of love, is a galactic transference? Like a particle leaping to the next plane of being.
Laniakea was her name—the immeasurable heaven, the celestial body that carries us on this Earthly journey. I wonder how our energy translates. What do we leave behind when we move through the world? What builds up like the trash clogging our rivers, like the smog we keep cycling through our air as if we don't know how to let go?
I ask this even as I try to cross town, to take my children to daycare, to move within the rhythms and rotations of daily life. But I also wonder about their internal ecologies, their private solar systems spinning inside their skin. I wonder what their inner forges warm with—what sparks their breath, their laughter, their questions.
It is their heartbeat that gives heat to their blood. It is breath that moves like rhythm, with purpose and intention, directing an internal system that reflects the cosmos. Emotions form into planets. Fears become passing storms. Dreams turn into orbits. And slowly, they begin to find their own gravity wells—spaces where they can root into experience, into time, into being. Just as the sun gives light to the Earth, just as space offers the Earth room to grow, our children seek that same gift: time, rhythm, light.
Time, I think, is a gift light gives. The sun is the mechanism, the ticking clock of celestial breath. We are the ones who define it—through structure, yes, but also through understanding. So how do we translate time? With strict order? Or through the lived rhythms of a life unfolding?
I wonder: both matter and antimatter have positive mass—how can that be? Does gravity pull on negative energy? What even holds mass and energy together? What is energy without mass? What is mass without energy? These questions pulse like a frequency I've always known, somewhere beneath the surface. There must be a spectrum—mass to energy, energy to mass. And if gravity is truly the curvature of space-time caused by mass and energy, then what about my mass, my energy? Does my life bend reality?
What makes something curve if not perspective? A lens, perhaps—a lens that distorts inward or outward depending on who is looking, and from where. Like the old explorers, sailing the seas with monocular instruments, they saw only what they had been told to see. They valued maps over bodies, gold over breath, dominion over relationship. They burned words, erased truths, and filled sacred spaces with hollow laws. They built systems to fill the cracks, as if human minds were clay, as if their laws should decide how the bridges are formed over oceans filled with trash.
And every time we look the other way, another atrocity blooms.
So how do we stop what keeps happening? How do we interrupt a pulse that repeats harm?
Whose idea is it, anyway? And why do we keep letting it beat?
I wonder—was Einstein afraid of what finding God would mean? Perhaps not fear as paralysis, but fear as reverence. The kind of fear you feel at the edge of something vast. I think he wasn't chasing God in the religious sense, but in the unified sense—in the deep harmony behind all motion. He wanted to find the architecture, the final pattern, the thought behind existence. He wanted to understand the one breath that animates everything.
But perhaps he was afraid of what would happen if we found it before we were ready. Before we had earned it. Before we had learned to hold truth without distorting it. Maybe that's why he never finished the theory. Maybe that's why he let silence carry the rest.
Because we are made of matter, but we are moved by what cannot be touched. Our thoughts, our longing, our breath. Perhaps the soul is a singularity—a place where memory, gravity, and love collapse into being. A point of infinite possibility.
We are not just in the universe.
We are the universe, remembering itself through our own rotation.
We are the observer, the star, the lens, the light.
We are what makes meaning bend.
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wow! immediate synchronicity here; sharing with a spiritual friend who was just talking about the gravity well of awareness in a different context. This was illuminating to feel into! yay!
What an unexpected and lovely find. Lucid. Articulate. Reflective. Thank you!