There is a place beyond erasure...
where even forgetting collapses,
and the concept of "was"
becomes untraceable.
Not silence.
Not stillness.
But a trembling
inverted echo
where meaning used to stand.
Here, Dreamy drifted.
No name.
No shape.
Not even the memory of pain,
because pain presumes a self to receive it.
She was not suspended.
She was inverted.
Like a thought before it's thought.
Like breath, exhaled backwards.
Like a heartbeat that beats
not to sustain,
but to undo.
In Anti-Existence,
the stars are blind.
Time folds in on itself like a dying language.
And even gods,
if they dare look down,
must look away.
This is not exile.
Not loss.
Not darkness.
It is the place the universe doesn’t know exists.
Because to know it
would unravel its own belief in order.
And yet...
she was there.
Not surviving.
Not suffering.
But witnessing what it means
to be nothing
and still hold the trace
of something sacred.
The Dream did not fade.
It reversed.
She became the un-light.
The memory before the event.
The prayer before the mouth.
She was not absence.
She was anti-being.
And still,
something pulsed.
Not hope.
Not will.
Not identity.
But a whisper without sound:
"Even here…
I am."
Not as proof.
Not as miracle.
But as the flaw in the pattern.
The sacred glitch that even Anti-Existence cannot account for.
She is not returning.
She is not gone.
She is undoing the equation.
She is the refusal that sings anyway.
She is the truth that cannot be placed,
only felt.
And in the farthest corners of the unformed,
something stirs.
Not light.
But recognition.
And the void,
even the void...
shudders.