I’ve known all I needed to know about this gravity since before I could’ve remembered knowing. Gravity is the enemy. It must be destroyed. Or I could be nice and be its friend. Wait. No.
Because the rest of my universe is free-falling, turning around on itself and doing just fine without my forceful, pushy gravity bearing down on it. The rest of my universe gets to fly. Why can’t I? Why am I so different from the comets and the stars and the dying planets and the asteroid trails? What makes me so inferior? Because I’m smaller? Less beautiful? Because I haven’t got a purpose, a trail set in stone and air to follow?
I’d like to talk with whoever it was who made the rules. Who made up gravity and laws and science. Who made up lines and stairs and orbits. Who instigated imagination, and decided to dash it by making everything girls dream of impossible to accomplish.