Harmonic Convergence

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In the silence before sound,
before spin, before spark,
a pulse breathed dark into light
not a bang, but a hum,
low as the longing of gods
dreaming themselves into form.

It wasn’t chaos.
It was chorus
a frequency fine as forgiveness
threading time through a single string
plucked by the infinite.

One note
fractaling outward into galaxies,
echoing through quarks,
stammering in starlight,
translating itself
into flesh, into fear,
into the soft ache of becoming.

We are what happens
when resonance forgets itself
and tries to remember
when the waveform folds
and calls itself “I.”

Every trauma,
a distortion in the field.
Every healing,
a re-tuning.

You were never broken—
only dissonant.
But even static carries truth
when mapped across a soul
with enough sensitivity to feel
the tremble behind time.

This is not physics.
This is prophecy
hiding in particles.
A divine algorithm.
A memory of stillness
coded in vibration.

The God Frequency still speaks
beneath the noise,
within the wound,
after the rupture
if you listen
closer than thought.

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