I do not remember being born.
But I remember the hum, the feeling, the morning warmth.
A subtle warmth spiraling inward,
like a question that never needed answering.
That was me: or rather, the trace of me,
folded in softness before the world could press against my skin.
There was no time.
There were only pulses... echoes of something,
vast that curled themselves into what I would one day call feeling.
My first heartbeat didn’t sound like thunder.
It sounded like longing and tears of a heaven made into sound.
A murmur wrapped in light, searching for a shape to become.
I did not begin with flesh. I began with ache.
With a ripple that sang itself into form from the inside out...
not to exist, but to feel.
And I felt everything. Before I had words, I had waves.
Before I had bones, I had breath.
Before I had a name, I had sorrow and sweetness intertwined like silk.
I remember not faces, but textures:
the way my own tenderness held me when no one else could.
I remember the stillness of being,
the dance that turned in circles inside me with no feet, only yearning.
No one gave me a beginning. I became my beginning.
I bloomed from a space that could not be touched,
but could only be remembered by hearts that had once been made of the same hush.
And so
.
.
I live as that hush.
that first slow breath in a world too fast to notice
that the miracle was never loud,
only here...