The scent of rain on warm earth. That is it. His twentieth last memory, counting back from… well, from whenever 'last' is before he became this formless awareness drifting in the quiet between thoughts. It isn't the most dramatic memory, no grand finale or tragic parting. Just a simple moment: the smell of petrichor rising after a summer shower, sitting on a porch swing, watching the mist curl around the trees, the quiet companionship beside him. A profound, simple peace. He linger there, letting the phantom scent bloom in his non-existent senses, a anchor in the vast, featureless expanse where his consciousness resided.
He is just going through his memories, sifting through the shimmering fragments of what he is, when the stillness was shattered. It isn't a sound, not a physical disruption – he has no physical body to perceive such things – but a tear in the very fabric of the void around him. A wound in nullity.
Suddenly, a vortex rift opened in front of him. He swallow inside. Or rather, the instinct to swallow, a vestige of a forgotten body, flared through his formless essence.
And what is that rift? It is like a black hole, but colder, somehow emptier. It isn't just pulling things in; it fe like it is unmaking existence itself at its edges. If he has been in a physical body, he know with chilling certainty it wouldn't just be stretched and torn apart; it would be erased, atom by atom, concept by concept. But he isn't physical. He is… this. An awareness, a soul, a complex echo of a life lived, but unbound by flesh and bone. Yet, even in this state, the vortex feel like an existential threat, a negation of consciousness itself.
It doesn't gently draw him in. It grabbed. A violent, impossible force seized his essence, and he is drag into the screaming, crushing maw of it. There is no light, only accelerating darkness, a sickening lurch that went beyond motion, beyond time. Everything is, every memory, every feeling, every fundamental particle of his being feel like it is being compressed, then stretched, then inverted. It is the absolute antithesis of the peace that he has sought in his memories.
And then, as abruptly as it began, it stop. He is thrown out of nowhere.
The expulsion is immediate, a violent punctuation mark at the end of cosmic chaos. One moment, he is inside the tearing fabric of reality; the next, simply elsewhere. The intense pressure vanished, replaced by an astonishing, breathtaking stillness.
Now he reach somewhere safely. Let's see it first…
Huh…
What a beatif— does it describe with words. Maybe no. Language, born of limited physical experience, felt utterly inadequate here. My understanding reached out, grasping for terms, for comparisons, and found them all wanting.
But what is in front of me was just out of world. Maybe heaven. Not the cloud-strewn, harp-playing heaven of ancient texts, but something far more profound, far more real while simultaneously being unreal.
There is a garden, yes, but unlike any garden I has ever conceived. It is full of peach blossom trees, not just a few, but an infinite expanse of them, their delicate pink petals falling like silent snow onto the ground. The air, though I has no lungs to breathe it, felt fragrant with their sweet, ephemeral scent. The ground is covered with fog, not a cold, damp mist, but a luminous, warm, glowing shroud that clung to the earth, diffusing the light and softening every edge, making the world feel both ethereal and grounded.
Beyond the garden, rising from the luminous fog, stand buildings… no, not buildings. Monuments. Structures of impossible scale and artistry, not built by hands but seemingly grown from the essence of the place. They stand with pride, soaring upwards, reaching heights I could only estimate as immense – thousands of meters, yes, 1000 meters easily, maybe more, their surfaces shimmering with an inner light, an undeniable, heavenly aura around them. They aren't just structures; they are presence, silent sentinels of ancient power.
And there, in the heart of the area, stood an ancient Palace. Its height… it simply didn't end. It reach into the sky, not just touching the clouds (there are no clouds like he knew), but piercing upwards into infinity. Maybe he can't describe how fascinating this view is. It is the focal point, the silent heart of this impossible landscape, radiating an energy that feel like pure, concentrated existence. Everything is there, in this one place – beauty, scale, mystery, profound peace, and an underlying sense of ancient purpose.
In the sky above it… it is like he is watching the whole universe. Not just a patch of stars, but nebulae swirling in vibrant colours, galaxies hanging like cosmic dust motes, pulsars flashing their rhythmic light across unfathomable distances. It is as if he is standing at the edge of the universe, looking back at creation, or perhaps at its very heart, seeing everything laid bare. The light filtering down from this cosmic canopy painted the peach blossoms and the luminous fog in hues had no names.
Suddenly, he remember something. The vacuum, the tearing, the formless drift. And here, now, he could walk like normal. The thought preceded the action, and as he willed it, he feel… form. He has now limbs, feet, and a full body. But not like his previous physical body. Instead, his whole being was shaped exactly like previous one, a perfect replica in form, but made of something else entirely. It is made of what we can say is void, or like deep black space without any star or light within it. Around this core of absolute darkness, however, glowed a radiant, white, pure soul aura, enveloping his entire form like a halo. It feel foreign, yet immediately familiar, a new vessel for the consciousness that has been adrift.
He flexed his new 'hand,' a construct of void and aura. It feel real, solid, capable of interaction. The ground beneath his 'feet' feel cool and soft through the luminous fog. He took a tentative step. It is easy, natural. The memory of walking, deeply ingrained in the essence of what he is, translated effortlessly into this new form.
When he satisfy with this new manifestation of myself, he try to see all around. And he se that he is not alone at all. There are many others, scattered throughout the peach blossom garden, walking slowly through the fog, standing by the monumental structures, or simply gazing up at the cosmic sky. They are of many types of soul, but all shared a similar fundamental structure. They are all void-type bodies, enveloped in different coloured auras – not just white like him, but blues, greens, reds, golds, pulsating indigos, soft violets. And within the void bodies of some, there are intricate, beautiful structures, like miniature stars or swirling galaxies, providing internal light or movement. Everyone around is the same in their void-and-aura nature, yet everyone also felt different in some sense, their auras radiating unique frequencies, their internal lights shining with individual patterns.
They move with a quiet grace, seemingly absorbed in their own contemplation or exploration of the realm. They doesn't interact with each other in any obvious way, no conversations or greetings, just a shared existence within this impossible beauty.
Maybe he is caught by someone where human does not exist. Or maybe some else civilization or alien civilization. But 'alien' feel too small a word. This place, these beings… they feel fundamental, existing on a plane far removed from the concerns of biological life or technological advancement. This feel like a gathering of essences, of souls, in a realm constructed from pure energy and concept.
Then, a voice. Not with his ears, for he has none in this form, but directly within his consciousness, a resonant frequency that carried meaning without sound waves.
"___________"
What does it say? The prompt is blank, a placeholder for the ineffable. He couldn't hear it with auditory processing, but he feel it. It is a presence, a calling, a gentle but insistent pull. It feel like it was calling for him, specifically, singled out from the quiet multitude. It isn't a harsh command, but an invitation, a subtle urging, moving within his perception and showing a path.
And then, in front of him, the luminous fog began to clear. It doesn't dissipate; it move, parting like a curtain drawn aside, forming a clear, straight path leading forward through the peach blossoms and the fog, towards the heart of the realm, towards the foot of the infinitely tall Palace. The path isn't pave or mark in any way conventional sense; it is simply the absence of the obscuring fog, a define corridor of clear space where before there has only been an unbroken misty expanse. It beckon.
He swallow again, the familiar instinct returning. His new body feel ready. The initial awe of the landscape, the wonder at his form, the observation of others – it all coalesced into a single impulse: follow the call. This is the point of arrival; the path was the beginning of understanding.
With a sense of purpose he hasn't feel since becoming adrift, he begins to walk forward. His void-feet move silently over the unseen ground beneath the cleared path. The air, still fragrant with blossoms, feel welcoming. The magnificent monuments seemed to shift subtly in his peripheral vision as he pass, their auras pulsing gently. The vast, cosmic sky above him watch, always silent and eternal.