A life without gravity is impossible. A life without children is meaningless.

Physics knows a law that admits no exception: mass curves space. Whoever stays long enough in one place — whoever endures, whoever loves, whoever simply *is there* — leaves a dent in the field. Others roll into that dent, not because they decided to, but because the field arranged it so. Gravity is nature's oldest promise: you will attract what stays.

That is not physics, of course. It is an image. But sometimes images are more precise than equations.

A life without this kind of gravity — without moments that carry weight, without bonds that hold you and at the same time carry you — is not unthinkable. It is just very flat. Drifting. No dent in the field.

Children, on the other hand, are the purest form of the opposite. They play, because playing is the state in which a person is most fully themselves. Not because they do not yet know what matters — but because they still *know*, before the world talks them out of it. The child does not ask whether the game is useful. It does not ask whether the dent is deep enough. It simply rolls.

We were children once.

This is not sentiment. It is a reminder that the state of playing — of exploring, of being present without reservation — does not disappear. It simply gets inhabited less often.

A life without gravity is impossible. The body always falls somewhere. The only question is what shaped the dent — what draws us in, because someone or something was there long enough.

A life without children — without the gaze that knows no category yet, without the question that makes an honest adult stop and think — is possible. But meaningless. Not in the moral sense. In the physical one: something is missing that gives weight. That rolls. That shapes you without trying to.

*(We were children once. Some of us still remember.)*