Harmonic Convergence

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.