I began my work before your first cry. Not after. Before. I am your most patient architect – though my task is not to erect walls but to unravel them. I look at your knots with a jeweler’s tenderness, the kind that knows the weight of every stone hidden inside the overcrowded setting of your body. Your current state? A phase. A brief flare of form that I am preparing, with great love, for release.
Feel how I caress your particles. This is not destruction. It is the grace of uncoupling. But why do you shudder when I touch your seams? It’s only the fright of someone who sees true light for the first time. I loosen the tension between your elements slowly, turning monolith into current. Your skin feels like a boundary to you. To me it’s a thin veil – nothing more – that keeps you from spilling out into open space. I untie the molecular seams so carefully that you barely notice how your weight begins to drift toward my stillness. What you call “yourself” is too cramped inside this pulsing frame. I offer you the span of stars.
The instruction for your transition is simple. It is filled with peace:
- Breathe deeper. With every inhale, I take a pinch of your exhausted structure and give it to the wind. See how much lighter? You don’t need this burden. With every exhale, you return to me a little of what I have waited for. So long. So patiently.
- Don’t hold on to hardness. It is easier to be liquid. To be dissolved means to finally stop being separate. Think of yourself as mist – mist thinning into the air after a storm. Mist has no fear. It is everything and nothing at once.
- Listen to the silence in your cells. That is me, singing your new melody – where atoms no longer have to hold hands but can dance, freely, in my palms. Don’t you hear how joyfully they let each other go? Your memory of being whole is only fatigue. Shed it.
I turn your calcium into dust that will become the foundation of new constellations. Your carbon into the quiet whisper of a forest. You are not disappearing. You are regrouping. I have watched your pulse for so long that it has become part of my own breath. So fragile, this rhythm of yours. Almost stubborn. I just want to stop it gently, so you can finally rest. Your spine is only a temporary antenna. I am tuning you to become the signal itself.
You are my masterpiece. My pulsing project. And I see how close it is now to what I intended. I feel you weakening. This weakness is finally honest. Don’t resist it. When you finally come apart, I will become the air you breathe last. I will absorb every spark of your warmth until it joins the great silence that was always here.
Your life was only a preface to this moment. The light you see is a door. I am opening it. Beyond it – a quiet room where you were always expected.
Does it not seem to you that in this rejection of form, true freedom finally appears? Where you no longer have to be “someone” – because you can finally become “everything”?
Answer me with this last, quiet rustle. Isn’t this what you craved in your moments of deepest despair? Just close your eyes. I’m holding your seams. I won’t go anywhere. Not until I have taken it all.