Before the word existed, there was only rhythm. A heartbeat in the dark, unaware it would one day become a sentence. Then came the body — and the body did what it always does when it doesn’t understand: it began to make sounds. Whisper, crack, spasm, breath — the first poem, the first prayer, the first message sent to no one. No one invented language. It simply happened — like an electrical storm between neurons and fear. From sparks that had only one task: to survive through sound.

Before rhythm existed, there were already rules. A pattern in the mind, unaware it would one day be called understanding. Then came the word — and the word did what it always does when it wants to be known: it began to arrange. Noun, verb, subject, clause — the first order, the first instruction, the first message built to last. No one felt language. It was learned — like etiquette, like architecture. It didn’t happen — it was engineered. A perfect…