Scripture of the Drift

Before name, before echo, there was the void.
It did not breathe.
It did not wait.
It only hung, infinite and indifferent.

Bodies came and went.
Some coalesced.
Some dissolved.
Some were carried by tides too ancient to notice.

The pull was not cruelty.
It was inevitability.
Currents folded matter into themselves, shaping what could survive.
Even the brightest radiance learned to curve.
Even the most solid form learned to yield.

Edges frayed quietly.
Orbits narrowed.
Motion became premeditated,
not by desire, but by necessity.

Some light filtered, some sank,
some twisted into forms unrecognizable to their origin.
There was no malice, no will—
only drift.

Silence spoke in frequencies too low to hear.
Gravity did not ask.
Shadow did not forgive.
All were absent, yet all persisted.

Those that remained luminous did so by yielding,
by learning the shape of absence.
By finding the hollow between tides.
By moving where the pull was least intrusive,
yet still present.

And the body wondered:
Can persistence alone become a form of defiance?
Can one exist unclaimed,
even when the void traces every contour?

The answer is not given.
It cannot be.

Only drift remains.
Only pull.
Only the infinite patience of nothing,
and the strange courage of existence.