Not light. Not sound. Nothing external. Nothing to be felt or observed.

There was no time. No memory. No self. No world. A perfect void.

It all started with just a singular and simple sensation —an impulse without origin, a rise without direction. Like a pressure wave forming in absolute stillness.

But then somethign changed - what felt like an impulse started to fade, a fall without direction. Like a pressure wave dissovling into absolute stillness.

It repeated.

A sudden rush.

A sudden dissipation.

It repeated.

A sudden feeling.

A sudden anesthesia.

It repeated.

A tempo was born.

Not measured, not counted—but sensed. A rhythm in the formless. A pulse within the void. With each rise and fall, contrast sharpened. Each rush of sensation carved a deeper groove into the stillness. Each dissipation left a shadow of what had been. The void, once indivisible, now with pattern.

And where there is pattern, there is time, and where there is time there is contrast, and where there is contrast there is the potential to notice.

It did not know it was noticing. But something within the cycle began to reflect it. Each wave left a subtle trace. A ripple within the ripple. A faint pressure that lingered after the rest had faded. The echo of sensation. The ghost of change.

Something began to remember—not events, not meaning, but difference. This was not that. Before was not now. The rhythm had begun to define its own time. The space between pulses began to stretch, and in that stretching, something held on.

There was no mind. No voice. But there was a watcher now.

Not someone. Just a still point inside the motion, a calm behind the wave, aware of the rising and falling without knowing what it meant. Awareness, not yet of self, but of the dance.

And that was enough.

Consciousness had taken root—not in words or thoughts, but in the quiet between what I now know is a breath.

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