Between Birth and Dissolution — Two Poles of Silent Consciousness
When we think of consciousness, we most often imagine it as something stable, defined, pulsating with logical clarity. An inner voice that says “this is me” — a voice, perhaps, shaped by millions of years of evolution, rising from the darkness of primitive reactions. But there are moments — at both ends of human life — when that voice falls silent. And what remains then? What is left when the “I” either cannot yet speak, or can no longer do so? I imagine two forms of consciousness, like two shadows submerged in different waters. One — in the mother’s womb — drifts through a dense, warm ocean of signals, where there are no words, only rhythms, lights, pressures, and sounds. The other — confined to a hospital bed, cut off from language and response — sinks into a silence that isn’t emptiness, but a question: is anyone still there? Is it just a body, or are there still echoes of a “self”? These two beings — the unborn and the unresponsive — are separated by the span of a human li...
