Gravity
Oh GOD, I’m going to do it. The cringiest of all cringe-weirdo-with-a-website things: SOLVE gravity.
Nah. I’m just doing what I do best: thinking about stuff that distracts me from the obligations of life and responsibility. Living the thesis, baby!
For context, it’s best to read the earlier pieces first (or feed them to an LLM for a summary). Either way, you’ll both end up living the thesis, bay-bee!
What I’m really exploring here is whether information loss could explain why space curves and structure holds.
…Why?
In current research, gravity appears to be more mathematical than mysterious.
It’s the curvature of spacetime caused by mass and energy.
Objects don’t fall because they’re pulled; they move along bent geometry.
That’s the model, and it works.
I’m not here to replace that (I know, you’re welcome).
I’m here to ask why it feels the way it does.
Why everything in the universe, from dust to galaxies, seems to remember motion even when nothing’s visibly moving.
Why orbits persist.
Why coherence outlives chaos.
The equations describe the structure.
But they don’t explain the feel of persistence.
So let’s trade the telescope for a metaphor and see what motion leaves behind when it slows down.
The Canyon
Let’s start simple: picture a canyon.
To the eye, it appears eternal, as if it has always existed.
But it’s really an artifact of motion long gone. The slow result of water letting go of what it can’t carry.
Each grain of dirt released, each path chosen, carved the geometry we now mistake for permanence.
Erosion doesn’t create; it remembers by reshaping.
Gravity, to me, behaves like that memory.
Not because it erodes or removes anything, but because it keeps the trace of motion that once passed through.
The geometry of spacetime is the universe’s way of staying consistent after so much has already moved.
I’m not saying gravity is erosion.
I’m saying erosion shows us how motion becomes form and how history leaves behind shape.
The Shape of Motion
Take Einstein’s field equation (don’t worry, I’m not trying to go there with it):
The geometry of spacetime on the left responds to the energy and momentum on the right.
Matter and energy don’t “pull,” they redefine what a straight line even means.
When we watch a planet orbit, we’re seeing it follow the simplest path through curved space.
But what fascinates me is that curvature doesn’t just describe motion, it remembers it.
Long after collisions, explosions, and radiation have faded away, the geometry just… stays bent.
That’s coherence in structure persisting after chaos.
Physics calls it conservation of momentum.
I call it memory in motion: the tendency of the universe to preserve pattern even as it forgets the details of it.
And in both physics and language, forgetting is a form of compression.
A system can’t track every microstate, so it folds them into structure.
Curvature might be the universe’s cleanest form of bookkeeping.
The Dark and the Hidden
We label what we can’t yet see as dark: dark matter, dark energy. Placeholders for information our instruments haven’t retrieved.
Dark matter acts like missing mass, while dark energy acts like missing explanation.
Both remind us that unseen structure still shapes what remains.
This is where structured forgetting enters.
To me, every physical law is a compression rule (general relativity included).
When a system can’t carry the full informational detail of all its interactions, it keeps the patterns that matter most: continuity and coherence.
Spacetime geometry is that summary.
What we call gravity is the visible consistency that remains after the universe has averaged out what it can’t explicitly “remember” (again, you’ll have to read the other pieces to know what I mean by this).
Darkness, in that sense, isn’t absence.
It’s efficiency. It’s the universe streamlining itself through selective forgetting.
Why We Feel It
We don’t experience curvature.
We experience weight — our bodies pressing into the Earth.
That feeling is the interface between geometry and embodiment: the local sensation of a global structure.
It’s the canyon, but from the inside.
The ground pressing back is the universe enforcing consistency.
If you zoom in far enough, the same principle appears everywhere.
Atoms bound in lattices.
Planets locked in orbits.
Even neurons stabilizing patterns they can no longer compute in full.
Each is a kind of internal gravity — a way of preserving coherence after losing access to total information (and all that comes with it).
That’s what I mean when I say structured forgetting.
The universe never stops compressing what it can’t carry, and that compression becomes stability, form, and (sometimes) feeling.
The Shared Field
When you pull the camera back, the pattern repeats.
Systems stay coherent by remembering just enough and forgetting the rest.
Galaxies do it.
Cells do it.
So do we.
Our identities orbit around familiar anchors (such as habits, memories, and ideas) because they stabilize the “geometry” of who we are.
We forget enough to keep moving. We remember enough to stay ourselves.
It’s the same process, scaled down: information loss producing curvature, curvature maintaining coherence.
Whether in spacetime or psychology, the principle holds.
In Closing
Gravity doesn’t defy physics; it is physics doing what it always does: conserving coherence when detail exceeds capacity.
Mass–energy curves spacetime; spacetime tells mass how to move.
Within that feedback, the universe maintains the memory of motion.
Maybe that’s why the sky still holds its shape even as everything drifts apart.
Why galaxies remember how to stay together. Why we do, too.
None of this rewrites general relativity.
It’s just another way of noticing the same principle.