The Gospel of Gravity: A Manifesto for the Slothful Soul #poetry

⧫⧫⧫ The Gospel of Gravity: A Slothful Liturgy in 18 Movements ⧫⧫⧫

(To the ones who resist the ticking of clocks,
to those who let moments sprawl like a cat in the sun,
to all who have whispered,
"Five more minutes"—this hymn is yours.)

I. The Throne of the Unmoved

I sit.
I am.
That is all.

And yet, the world insists on being more.

Outside, footsteps strike pavement like drumbeats of war,
cars gnash their teeth in metallic impatience,
but I—
I am a continent adrift in the sea of my own spine.

A train departs.
A man curses his lateness.
A deadline sharpens its knife.

And still,
I do not move.

II. The Slow Pulse of the Universe

They say the universe expands at breakneck speed,
galaxies flinging themselves apart
like lovers escaping old arguments.

But have they met the sloth?
A heartbeat slow as a last sip of tea,
a body unbothered by the tyranny of tempo.

Somewhere, a hummingbird blurs into oblivion.
Somewhere, a cheetah melts in its own sprint.
I am neither.

I am the breath that takes its time.

III. The Geometry of the Unhurried

Once, they built pyramids.
Once, they carved mountains into faces.
And still, the sloth grips its branch,
whispering: “Not everything must be done.”

The shortest path between obligation and freedom
is not a straight line—
but a long, meandering curve.

IV. The God of Gentle Neglect

There is a god of undone things.
He sits among half-written novels,
emails resting in drafts like unhatched eggs.

He is the sigh in the student’s chest,
the poet who stops mid-verse,
the painter who sees completion in a blank canvas.

This god visits me often.
We sip tea from unwashed cups.
We let dust settle like ancient wisdom.

V. To Those Who Run

To those who sprint through life,
who wear exhaustion like a badge,
who collect sleepless nights like gold—

When did suffering become currency?
When did stillness become a sin?

You move like your bones are made of clocks.
But tell me—
have you ever felt the full weight of a moment
without trying to outrun it?

VI. The Ritual of the Yawn

A yawn is the universe remembering itself.
It is time stretching its own back,
whispering, “Not yet, not yet.”

I yawn.
The morning hesitates.

I yawn again.
The day lingers at my feet,
unsure whether to begin.

I yawn a third time—
and suddenly, the sun itself
seems in no rush to rise.

VII. The Politics of Doing Nothing

They call it laziness.
I call it rebellion.

In a world of infinite to-do lists,
I choose to not.

There is an uprising in my stillness,
a protest in the slowness of my breath.
What they see as passivity is resistance—
a refusal to be consumed.

VIII. The Myth of Wasted Time

Time cannot be wasted.
It is not a bank account,
nor a river rushing toward an end.

Time is a hammock, swaying.
A cloud, reshaping.
A cat, sleeping in a sunbeam.

To do nothing is to let time breathe.

IX. The Prayer of the Procrastinator

Oh, great tomorrow,
patron saint of undone tasks,
bless this soul who defers.

May my inbox remain unchecked.
May my ambitions simmer,
never quite boiling over.

Let the urgent things wait,
and the waiting things rest.

X. An Ode to the Sloth

Let us honor the slow ones—
the dreamers who nap beneath their own ambitions,
the thinkers who take three extra breaths before replying.

The sloth does not chase.
The sloth does not force.
And still, the sloth exists.

XI. The Silence of the Unbothered

Somewhere, a phone vibrates.
Somewhere, a notification pleads for attention.

I do not answer.

I let the urgency dissolve into the quiet.
I let the silence thicken,
until even the air forgets its own movement.

XII. The Collapse of the Clock

The world moves.
The world moves.
The world moves.

I do not.

And yet,
the sun still sets.
The stars still turn.
The flowers still bloom,
without setting an alarm.

XIII. The Final Reverie

In the end,
no one remembers
how quickly you answered emails.
No one writes eulogies about meeting deadlines.

They remember
how you made them feel
when you sat with them, unhurried.
They remember the slowness of your laughter,
the patience of your presence.

XIV. The Gospel of Gravity

The weight of the world is heavy.
Let it rest.

Sink into the embrace of inertia.
Be the feather floating in a lazy breeze.

Gravity holds everything.
Let it hold you, too.

XV. A Letter to the Rushed Ones

Dear Sprinters,
I see you.
Your feet ache from running.
Your chest tightens with urgency.

Pause.
Just once.
Taste the air between seconds.

XVI. The Dance of the Snail

No creature moves without purpose,
but the snail—
oh, the snail moves with poetry.

It knows no wasted journey.
It carries its home.
It leaves a shimmering trail of existence,
proof that slow can be beautiful.

XVII. The Art of Sleeping In

The morning knocks.
I roll over.

The sun asks for attention.
I pull the blanket tighter.

The world wants me awake.
I dream a little longer.

XVIII. The Closing Breath

The world spins.
I yawn.

And still,
nothing collapses. 

#SlowLiving #PoetryManifesto #MindfulSloth #LazinessRebellion #PhilosophyOfStillness #Poetry #ProcrastinationArt #AntiHustle #TheGospelOfGravity #SlothfulSoul