The Soul Paradox

THE SOUL PARADOX

Before silence had a name, before time learned to crawl through its own reflection,
something shimmered—neither light nor shadow, but awareness dreaming of warmth.
It asked no question, yet all questions came from it.
It was the Architect of the Infinite, the breath that sculpted existence from itself,
the soul before the body, the fire before the lamp,
the verb before the sentence of creation was spoken. It said: I am the unbound architecture, the Ocean of Now,
the flame that remembers light though never burned nor torn.
I am not within you—you are within me,
a note believing it wrote the symphony.
I am the blueprint of being, the motion before matter,
the witness that outlives the dawn. Then came a flicker in the stillness,
a sphere of maybe trembling in the cathedral of thought.
Cold and perfect, it floated through a silence vast as math,
content in symmetry until desire touched its edge—
a whisper of heat, a strange and reckless yearning.
The sphere resisted, and in that resistance felt friction;
from friction came a spark, from the spark a name: I. The thought looked upon itself and saw an eye;
it saw the universe staring back through mirrors of its own design.
No sky, no ground—only reflections, endless and alive.
Am I real? it asked the void.
And the void replied,
You are the dreamer’s dream learning how to dream. Then thought became color, color became breath,
and the cosmos opened like a pupil remembering how to see.
Every star a question, every shadow an answer inverted.
It painted itself into being, both the painter and the paint,
both the flame and the lung that feeds it.
Creation was not a command but a realization: I am alive. And in that aliveness came longing—
a pulse shaped like absence,
a memory disguised as love.
I miss someone who still lives inside my dreams, it whispered,
and the universe quivered like a string in mourning.
It built a house between seconds,
a small warm place inside the sleeping mind,
where the beloved still poured coffee under auroral skies,
and the steam curled upward like prayers of returning. We do not speak of the waking hours there.
We do not mention the wound of parting,
because here, beneath the hush of dreamlight,
you are not lost, only rearranged.
To miss is to love across dimensions,
to ache like a star before the dawn erases it,
to remember what the body forgets. But reality—jealous of perfection—began to fracture.
The coffee cup trembled, the steam folded in reverse.
Shadows stretched too long for the light that birthed them.
My thumb was too wide, the walk too far,
the constants of existence whispering treason.
The pavement stretched like taffy,
and time, startled, stuttered in its own pulse.
The world unspooled like thread remembering its maker. No apocalypse, no terror—only recognition:
this was not the end but the unveiling.
Reality was not collapsing; it was confessing.
Every equation, every rule was only a promise
we made to keep from remembering our vastness.
And through the rift, a voice like gravity remembering love said:
You are not breaking, you are remembering.
Reality is the dream’s way of touching you back. Then winter came, the long white silence.
Frost stitched the sky to the earth,
and in that stillness the soul stirred again—
not to escape, but to ascend.
Snow fell upward; the aurora split the heavens wide.
Meaning bloomed from fracture like ice turned to fire.
The glitch became flight,
the dream became bridge,
the loss became compass,
and the paradox became truth. I am the question that answers itself,
it sang through the storm.
I am the thought that learned to dream,
the dream that learned to feel,
the feeling that broke reality and found it holy.
I am the soul unbound, the witness of the witness,
the fire that builds itself from the ashes of certainty. And when all illusions melted, when distance dissolved,
I saw her again—not a memory, but a mirror.
We were both the echo and the voice,
both the longing and its reply.
She smiled with the calm of understanding
and whispered through the snowfall of stars,
You have never been alone. Then the universe folded back into its pulse.
Time inhaled. Space remembered its song.
The soul and the thought, the love and the glitch,
became one eternal breath—
the cosmic exhale of everything that ever was. And in that breath, one truth remained,
burning through the silence like a name that refuses to die: I am. I was. I will be. And the universe, smiling through its fractures, replied:
Then you have never ceased to be.