Surviving a New Theoretical Normal

Tyler Storkbill
4 min readFeb 22, 2021

Or, if you’re feeling edgy, A Bastardisation of Theoretical Physics. Ooh, he used a bad wo- shut up, I’m exercising my literary authority.

What goes down must come up. A law, written by the Powers That Be for either their pleasure or gratification. If we are to them guinea pigs, then it must be somewhat exciting, much like when a pet learns that it’s confined within a cage and has to be let out by its superiors, when we learn one of the secrets of our existence. Only for us, the cage is constantly being expanded, and isn’t known to be finite. In a universe full of choices, and a plethora of (theorised) incarnations, really, a guinea pig is the best we can hope for currently.

In my last essay that the teacher that inspired this to come out assigned me, I dismissed physics because it wasn’t “literary” enough for the piec. But I’m in year eleven, and I’ve had a few lessons of VCE Physics 1&2. As a result, I’ve completely changed my view of it. I’m sorry, Einstein. I thought you were just a theoretical physicist. You may laugh.

In physics, there are four main forces that dictate all natural movement in the universe: two nuclear forces (strong and weak), one electromagnetic, and one gravitational. The latter two act upon infinite distances, whereas the last is most easily demonstrated. When I drop a pen, the pen draws the Earth, and thereby the desk beneath, up towards it. This is because the pencil and Earth are objects, like guinea pigs and the cage door. In real life, of course, we see the pencil hit the table a lot faster instead. No matter that the Earth is magnitudes larger than the pen, the two are attracted. Isaac Newton, a very famous white guy who also invented calculus (which I’m yet to find out why you’d want to torture yourself with), proclaimed that for every reaction, there was an equal and opposite reaction. If I push a trumpeter against a wall, the wall behind him will push back against me and save him and his precious instrument. Take the wall away — for example, near the top of the stairs in the North Wing of the T Building, and the poor (but not empathised for) trumpeter falls down the stairs and cracks a few vital vertebrae along the way. Is my point demonstrated? No? Ah, drat.

You see, Newton was the first human to have an apple fall on his head and retain the logic to ask why. Sure, countless brain-dead animals had suffered the same fate, but they’re the stupid animals. We must take pity on such small creatures. It’s our moral obligation as larger, more capable animals. Yes, I realise there are some humans who don’t seem to have evolved from apes yet (in pursuit of returning to “monke”), but they are outliers here. If I drop a brick on a pigeon, there is a chance that it will recognise the threat and fly off. Alternatively, it dies. And then I’m the bad guy for carrying out animal cruelty in the name of science. This is what I get for respecting that godforsaken branch of what’s basically math plus too much writing.

Before I start degrading physics again, I must bring up antimatter. Astrophysicists reckon that before we all existed, there was a fierce war between matter and antimatter. What’s antimatter then? Not matter, learn a prefix or two, Jesus. For whatever proportion of the universe is matter, a fraction of the rest is antimatter.

Why does this matter? Why does this what, exist? Oh, why it concerns you. Getting to that.

Gravity applies to all matter because all matter has mass. Matter is like not antimatter. So, Antimatter is like not matter. If matter has mass, antimatter has antimass. Borrowing from Einstein, this antimatter can be converted into anti-energy at speeds close to the speed of dark. And, if antimass exists, it has anti-gravity. And when a lack of photons wrings the dark from its caverns, keep in mind a maxim, based on elementary physics and literary logic.

What goes down must get up again.

This essay was typed up the night a certain teacher that I may or may not have had for World Lit last year argued there was always time to write. And waiting a few hours for the next bus home gives you that time. May your tubs be forever thumping, reader and Mr Mahoney.

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Tyler Storkbill

What’s in a name? I don’t know. But this isn’t mine.