A Theory of Something

We began at the core and found ourselves spinning,
all falling at the same rate.
Resistant to change, while refracting progress,
pressure flowing in proportion equal and opposite,
an apple, a mind, and the shoulders' of giants,
who eclipse the speed limit never adding or removing,
don't see a point, but find the source in a square,
up and down across the line, absorbing and weighing,
putting in to get out, zapped by ideas positive and negative,
constantly heating, seeing only some, but exposing all,
relative and random. Back to the core,
Bang! We are growing apart.
How low must we go until we have a
theory of something?