There was no signal that this was the end.
No threshold. No tonal shift. I noticed the absence only when the habit of scanning for instruction turned up nothing.
This space did not care if I moved.
It did not care if I stayed.
There was no system here to push against or submit to. No inheritance. No record. No projection.
Only presence without engagement.
I stood. Then I sat. Then I stood again.
Each happened without consequence.
The body searched quietly for edges. Found none. Not because the space was infinite, but because nothing asked to be shaped.
I felt the old impulse rise, to describe this, to mark it, to turn it into insight.
I let that pass too.
Time didn't behave strangely. It simply went on.
Breath. Weight. Balance.
I was aware of how much of myself had previously existed in relation: to expectation, to pressure, to need.
Here, that thinned.
Not disappearance.
Just less.
A thought surfaced: This would be easier if I knew what this was for.
I did not answer it.
Another thought followed: This serves no one.
That one stayed.
I saw, with uncomfortable clarity, how often usefulness had been my proof of existence.
Here, there was no proof.
I did not rush to replace it.
The body didn't relax into peace. It adjusted into neutrality. A state that I had rarely trusted.
Nothing asked me to stay.
Nothing waited for me to leave.
I understood then that this was not freedom.
I remained long enough to feel the urge to leave pass on its own.
When I finally stepped forward, there was:
No conclusion. Just continued ground.
I did not become better here.
I became less necessary.
That had to be enough.
—