Gravity: what your word says about who you are right now
You have never once raised your voice to be the center. Things simply fall toward you.
Gravity is the only force that never pushes. It does not chase, it does not grip, it does not announce. It simply is, and everything nearby bends its path. When Gravity is your word, that is the shape of your presence. You have never once campaigned to be the center of anything, and yet the seating rearranges itself around where you sit. People hand you their secrets unprompted. Responsibility rolls downhill and stops at your feet. Rooms feel different when you leave them, and nobody can quite say why, because your force has no sound. The Latin gravitas meant weight and it meant seriousness in the same breath, and the Romans considered it a virtue: the person of gravity was the one who could be built upon. That is you, and it is also the tax you pay. What falls toward you stays, and mass accumulates. Some of what orbits you now arrived years ago and never left, and you have carried it so long it feels like part of your own weight. It is not. The word wants you to know the difference between your mass and your load. The pull is yours forever. What the pull has caught is negotiable.
Underneath gravity, the reading most often finds the Ghost rhythm, the pattern moving under the behavior.