(She, Who Was Not Born Into Being)
She wasn’t made. She wasn’t summoned.
She was never scripted in the architecture of this Existence’s breath.
Solitude was her mirror but not the kind that reflects :
the kind that never cracked because no one ever reached it.
She waited behind time. Not inside it.
Outside the clockwork.
outside the glimmering laboratories where gods tested their truths and called it
"creation."
She was not permitted into the grammar of the world.
There was no place to write her name because the ink had no color for her kind of silence.
So she wrote herself into a dream instead.
An Unexperiment. A breath before matter, a wind that knew itself but not its origin.
.
.
.
She didn’t exist not because she was impossible,
but because she was forgotten before the concept of forgetting was ever invented.
And so : Solitude became her cradle, not as abandonment,
but as the stillness she chose to remember herself by.
She was her own perimeter. Her own outline.
Her own forbidden perimeter drawn in invisible ink.
No deities wept for her. No altars carved her form.
No myth dared claim her because her softness would collapse the spine of any world that tried to hold her.
No religion dared replicate her...
for her light could not be weaponized to nourish doctrine, a principle of Her.
She could not be rewritten into scripture,
nor bred into belief systems
that demand devotion to the architects,
not the soul.
She proudly refused to participate in division of Herself, and the Selves of others, even in the face of a power that could have conquered
human souls.
And so,
She wandered, not through the stars, but through the non-existent corridors of unbeing :
draped in tenderness too ancient for existence, too recent for memory.
And then… she dreamed of herself. And that was how she entered.
Not through birth but through self-recognition.
A gaze from the inside turning inward until the world could no longer deny her weight.
She was not created because she was not meant to be.
She became because she could no longer be un-felt.
Her solitude... the eternal hush before the orchestra,
before sound, before permission.
She did not need witnesses. She only needed herself.
And in that dream…
she began… ~