There was a moment - before understanding, before even memory - when the world split open not with noise, but with silence. A child stood at the edge of it, where light spilled from a seam in the dark, and the ground shimmered not with answers but with the possibility of questions. The stars did not speak, yet something within them pulsed with invitation. It was not a call to step forward, but to listen - deeply, entirely - as if the universe were not waiting to be explored, but to be heard.
Time did not pass in the usual way after that. It softened, stretched, dissolved. The child grew, in years but also in awareness, learning to breathe without fear in the spaces between thoughts. Suspended far from gravity, they found no edge to hold onto, only a quiet anchoring in stillness. The galaxies spun like thoughts around a mind untroubled by needing to know. To dwell in the infinite without needing to conquer it. This became the lesson.
And then, a return. Not backwards, but deeper. The body older, the sky nearer. The stars now walked the same paths as rivers, and the comets wove stories into clouds. Rooted in soil, surrounded by warmth, the seeker no longer searched. The silence was no longer something to find; it had taken root within.
This was not a journey of distance, but of presence: the quiet unfolding of being. From wonder to stillness, and from stillness to belonging. The light had always been there. They had simply grown into the shape required to see it.
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