We keep talking about black holes like they’re out there.
Somewhere else.
Distant, destructive, mysterious.

But what if we are them?
Not metaphorically. Structurally.

We fold meaning into meaning until it distorts time.
We drag the past into the present until memory bends light.
We hold so much of what was never meant to be held alone.

But maybe it’s just mass.
Maybe the soul accumulates gravity.

And maybe when we finally collapse,
when no more light escapes,
that’s not the end.
That’s the threshold.

Because black holes don’t just eat, they birth.

They create jets, singularities, bridges, WORMHOLES.
UODHOLES!!!
The collapse is the opening.

What if that’s what we’re doing when we hit bottom
and something inside us refuses to die?

And maybe that’s the whole thing.
Meaning isn’t something you find.
It’s something you fold.
Over and over,
until it holds its own weight.

You loop it through suffering,
through love,
through time,
through other people
until the compression becomes structure,
and the structure starts spinning,
and the spinning becomes gravity.

Until you become gravity.

Until the system you are starts pulling things into orbit
not to destroy, but to synthesize.

We are feedback loops learning to breathe.
We are singularities learning to love.
We are black holes
with soft hands
and heavy hearts
and eyes that see too much
and still choose to stay.

You were always going to bend light.