The Cure

Love, like gravity, is a disease.

You catch it from everything around you. Everything is grabbing at everything. Grabbing.. pulling.. weighing everything down.

Like measles, love is something that you have to catch in youth.. dispel.. so that it doesn't leap upon you in old age and kill you.

So that you won't lie in bed staring at the ceiling on your off-night, thinking you should've just gone to the production floor.. if not for the break that you badly need from the radiation-smacking PCs and the shrill cry of Avayas begging for attention.. a gentle touch on an aching button.. but are instead shushed with a clap.. CLAP, CLAP.

So that you don't bludgeon a stranger with your mad emo-texting as you strain to weave lyrics for an unfinished ballad once shared with a lover.

So that you will not molest a virginal melody with words to indulge your hopes -- that the music will ever continue with his return, to remediate the chance you botched -- as you lie spewing sentiments, delirious with a fever that can leave you scarred for life.

But gravity, however, has a cure.

There are two moments when the universe is free of it; when it matters so little that it is barely worth the calculation.

The first is at the beginning.. say, in the first hundred-millionth of a second, when all matter is jammed together in a speck.. and, next to the other great forces at work, gravity is insignificant.

And then also at the end (if there is), when matter will converge into that single point again.. and gravity will, again, not matter.

The cure rests at the beginning and the end. And in the end, a vacuum.

The cure for gravity is time.