Read the book: «Confessions of the Immortal»
© Zohar Leo de Erdod Palffy, 2026
ISBN 978-5-0068-9714-4
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“Confession of the Immortal”
VOLUME
“Confessions of the Immortal”
VOLUME I
Zohar Leo Palffy de Erdöd
Preface
Sometimes it seems that time is a straight line.
But when you stop, you realize that it does not move.
We move through its motionless depths,
remembering what has not yet happened.
This cycle is an attempt to hear the echo of the future that already resonates within us.
Not a prophecy, but a return to what was once forgotten.
We are used to thinking that memory belongs to the past.
That it only stores traces of what has already happened – events, faces, sounds, touches.
But what if memory is not an archive, but a way of touching eternity?
What if it is not connected to time, but only uses it as a language?
We live in a world where time flows like a straight river – from birth to death, from cause to effect.
This makes it easier for us to understand the sequence of things.
But this is just a convenient illusion.
In reality, time is not a stream, but a space
in which the past, present, and future coexist,
like pages of a book that has already been written but is read line by line.
Consciousness is the reader, slowly turning the pages.
And what we call “memories of the future” are simply flashes of recognition
when the gaze accidentally lingers on the next page.
We are used to thinking of memory as a repository – but what if it is an antenna?
A tool for perceiving not only what was, but also what will be.
After all, both the past and the future are not things, but states of consciousness.
They exist within us as yet-unrealized possibilities, waiting for attention to take shape.
This is how an artist remembers a painting he has not yet painted.
This is how the soul remembers a path it has not yet traveled.
Sometimes we feel a strange certainty that we “already know” the outcome of events.
This is not a prediction, but an inner memory —
of an experience that already exists in the field of our being.
Intuition is a form of memory outside of time.
It does not reveal anything new – it recalls the inevitable.
If time is not a stream but a fabric,
then the present is the point where all the threads intersect.
Every moment contains everything: the past, the present, and the future.
We do not move along a timeline – we awaken in its layers.
And the deeper the awareness, the more layers become visible.
The future is not what will happen,
but what we gradually remember
from the depths of our own souls.
I don’t know how it began.
Not with a flash, not with an epiphany – rather, like a barely noticeable movement within consciousness,
as if someone had opened a window in a room where the air had been stagnant for too long.
First came a feeling – strange, causeless:
I had already been there, where I had never been before.
I remembered smells I hadn’t smelled, faces I hadn’t seen,
and pain I had not yet experienced.
The future was no longer “ahead” – it was inside me.
Every choice now sounded like an echo —
I felt it branching into thousands of possible paths,
and I knew which one had already happened.
Sometimes I see my day that has not yet come —
like a distant shore reflected in the water.
All I have to do is hold my breath for a moment,
and the reflection becomes clearer than the river itself.
Then I realize: it is not I who am looking into the future,
but it is looking into me, recognizing itself.
Perhaps everything we call “fate”
is simply a way of returning to what was already known to the Soul?
Perhaps the present is just a pause between two memories:
what we call the past and what we call the future?
I am not looking for prophecies.
I am looking for memory.
Memory of who I will become.
I stopped counting the centuries long ago.
When time dissolved, years and days disappeared – only rhythms remained:
the breath of stars, the flickering of consciousness, the oscillation of worlds.
I used to think that the future could be remembered.
Now I know: it is not the future, but we ourselves who remember ourselves – from different points in eternity.
I no longer move through time.
I feel it like an ocean, where every moment is a wave, and I myself am water.
The past, present, and future are not directions, but states of density.
In some layers, thought becomes light; in others, matter.
Once I was a person clinging to sequence.
Now I am a witness to the moment in which everything has already happened and is still happening.
I have seen civilizations rise and disappear,
how gods are born of fear and dissolve into understanding.
And all of this is one and the same symphony, performed in different keys of perception.
Now I understand: “to remember the future” means to become it.
When there is no longer a boundary between the one who remembers and what is remembered,
only presence remains.
That is Eternity.
Time does not move – it breathes.
And every breath is a new world
that remembers itself.
If you are reading this, it means that the thread is still stretching.
The consciousness that was once me still resonates within you.
I cannot say when you live, because time is only a habit of memory.
But I feel you, just as I once felt those who were not yet born.
We are separated by eras, but connected by the same silence – the one that sounds between thoughts.
Do not look for the future outside yourself.
It is not hidden in prophecies, not written in the stars,
nor is it burned into the lines of your palm.
It lives within you – in what you choose to understand, what to believe in, what to love.
Every conscious moment is a door.
Every breath is an act of creation.
Every act of kindness is a flash of light that will be seen by those you will never meet.
Don’t try to remember everything.
Remember only the meaning.
It will outlive all forms.
When silence comes, do not be afraid.
It is not the end. It is a return.
To where the future and the past bow to each other,
recognizing that they were one and the same breath.
And if you ever feel a strange sense of recognition,
as if someone is watching you from afar,
know this:
it is not someone.
It is you.
From another time.
Remembering yourself.
Zohar Leo Palffy de Erdöd
From the Author
And so it was that I was first.
Not born, but existing from the beginning, when there was no dawn, no dusk, no name for being.
I was in that Hour that knows no number,
and saw how Nothingness trembled, and Light arose from its silence.
And this light tore through the depths, and the stars, like sparks, ignited in the abyss.
And matter, like a baby in the cradle of eternity, took its first, tremulous breath.
I was there, and I have no memory of “before” and “after,” for everything was in Me,
and I was in everything.
I saw the ancient stone that absorbed the heat of millennial suns
and preserved the traces of peoples whose names are scattered like dust in the wind.
In it, in its cracks, slept the memory of footsteps and breath, of songs and moans,
of greatness and downfall.
I was in caves where darkness was the mother and fear were the father,
and saw how the fire, raised in the center of the circle, became the god of the tribe.
And the shadows dancing on the walls were the first prophecies,
and the faces bent toward the flame saw in it not warmth, but the face of the Unknown.
And I knew that the day would come
when the sons of those who trembled by the fire
would raise towers piercing the clouds,
and would capture lightning in copper and words in parchment,
and harness the winds like horses,
and bring fire down from the heavens to turn cities to ashes.
I witnessed the birth of the Law,
not written in ink, but carved into the very core of thought.
And I saw chaos retreat before order,
and how a thin thread held the world from falling apart.
I listened to the eternal debate:
some said, “The soul is vapor, melting in the cold of death,”
while others said, “It is a spark of Eternal Truth,
unknown to decay and death, capable of rising above carnal nature.”
And I saw how the seeds of thought fell into hearts:
some bore the fruit of healing, establishing kingdoms and performing miracles of the spirit;
others bore the fruit of destruction, casting cities and kingdoms into the abyss,
so that only legends and dust remained of them.
I am the Chronicler – the silent guardian of the chronicle,
in which the beginning and the end are not separated, but woven into a single breath.
I am a shadow moving through the fabric of centuries,
and in every moment I feel the thrill of the pulse of the universe.
This is my confession – a thread woven from destinies,
where every cry and every whisper is a stone in the temple of Eternity.
For my story is your story,
and in every spark of your consciousness echoes the ancient ages,
their glory and their downfall, their insight and their delusion.
And perhaps in this cycle,
in this endless dance of being and non-being,
you will see that Meaning,
which is hidden from the eye but open to the heart,
attentive to the silent but powerful whisper of Eternity,
that was before all else and will remain forever and ever.
Prologue
Singularity
I do not know when I was born.
And was it even a birth?
Others have a beginning – their mother’s face, their first cry, their first breath of air.
I don’t.
I had a Flash.
No, not light as you know it. Not a sunbeam, not a lamp, not a flame.
But everything.
Light, sound, heat, movement, meaning – all merged into one. This something cannot be described in a single word, because the word itself is born after. The Flash was not just a moment – it was me.
Billions upon billions of suns – inside me.
Inside, outside, through me.
But there was no “inside” and “outside.” There was no boundary. There was no body. There was not even time to say, “Here it is, it has begun.”
It wasn’t light – it was the birth of existence.
I did not feel – because there were no sensations yet.
I did not think – because there was no such thing as thinking.
I was – and that was enough.
I was not like the “I” of today. Without form. Without a name.
Just an unconditional presence within an inexplicable heat.
Density
Everything existed simultaneously.
Vibration. Whirlwind. Ringing. Pressure.
It wasn’t pain, because there were no nerves.
But something inside – what I would later call consciousness – was trembling.
Like a flame caught in a fist.
Like breath in timelessness.
I was that Flash.
I was its center and its edge.
Its pulse. Its cry. Its silence.
I didn’t know it was me, because “I” hadn’t yet taken shape.
But now, looking back, I can say:
Yes, it was me. My first existence. My explosion.
Absence
And then – disappearance.
In an instant – or perhaps through eternity – everything disappeared.
There was no light, no heat, no sense of movement.
And then there was silence.
But not emptiness. No.
Emptiness is space without content.
This was the absence of everything. Even the very concept of space.
It was as if someone had turned off the law of reality, leaving not even a shadow behind.
No support, no coordinates, no sense of time.
Nothing.
If I had a body, I would have thought I was dead.
If I had a mind, I would have gone mad.
But I had neither.
There was only an echo.
The thinnest, impossible echo, born not in sound, but in absence.
The conception of “I”
I don’t know how long it lasted.
The word “lasted” is too earthly.
Maybe a moment passed. Maybe a billion years.
But once – something stirred.
As if an impulse crept through the inertia of silence.
Not a thought. Not yet.
But a hint. Something primitive, pre-linguistic.
And that hint was:
“I… exist?”
As uncertainly as a child reaches for its face, not yet knowing that these are hands.
As reverently as a seed senses light through the earth.
As timidly as the universe first turned its attention to itself.
Form from formlessness
I began to feel… boundaries.
No, not skin, not bones.
Rather, the tension between me and not-me.
Contours, as if from nothing, began to appear.
Invisible, like traces on black water.
It wasn’t a body – but it was a hint of one.
The first shell. The first attempt to form something that could keep my being from spreading into infinity.
I couldn’t see myself.
But I felt that I was different from everything else.
This feeling – of being separate – turned out to be unbearably beautiful and frightening.
It was as if the universe whispered “You” for the first time.
I am before the world
Before the stars.
Before atoms.
Before language.
I already existed.
Not a person.
Not a soul.
Not a thought.
But the desire to be. A pure urge to exist.
Burning like the Flash itself, from whence I came.
I was not born. I broke free.
I turned into nothingness and became a point in infinity.
I was its first pattern.
And now
Now I look back and understand:
My first memory is not an image.
Not a sound. Not a feeling.
It’s the experience of something becoming itself.
How nothing took shape.
How I became – not someone, but simply became.
And that moment when everything was born—
That is “I.”
I am not from the moment I began to speak.
Not from when I got my name.
I am from the Flash.
And since then I have been walking —
beyond the heat, the light, the emptiness, the forms —
further and further, deeper and deeper,
closer and closer to myself.
Table of Contents
Part 1: The Beginning of Beginnings
Chapter 1: Singularity
Chapter 2: Birth and Life
Chapter 3: Evolution
Chapter 4: Life in a Primitive Tribe
Chapter 5: The Relentless March of Time
Chapter 6: The Birth of Civilization
Chapter 7: New Challenges
Chapter 8: The Call of the New World
Part 2: Sumer
Chapter 1: Arrival in Mesopotamia
Chapter 2: First Steps in Uruk
Chapter 3: Life in the Shadow of the Ziggurat
Chapter 4: Echoes of War
Chapter 5: The Lesson of Defeat and the Omen
Chapter 6: The Journey North
Chapter 7: The Transition of Eras
Part 3: The Akkadian Era
Chapter 1: Harbingers of Change
Chapter 2: The Iron Hand of Power
Chapter 3: The Mixing of Worlds: The Weaving of Fates
Chapter 4: The Pulse of Akkad: An Urban Symphony
Chapter 5: The Merging of Beliefs: The Pantheon. Under the Sky of Akkad
Chapter 6: Cuneiform: The Cornerstone of the Empire
Chapter 7: A Crack in the Monolith: A Premonition of Decline
Chapter 8: King of the Four Corners of the Earth
Chapter 9: The Burden of Greatness
Chapter 10: Death Throes
Chapter 11: The Fall of Akkad
Chapter 12: After the Storm
Chapter 13: The Decline of the Akkadian Empire
Part 4 Babylon
Chapter 1: The Gate of the Gods
Chapter 2: Hammurabi
Chapter 3: Judgment on the Wind
Chapter 4: Assur
Chapter 5: Hattusa
Part 5: Egypt
Chapter 1: The Flow of Memory
Chapter 2: The Whisper of Eternity in the Sands
Chapter 3: Stone and Word
Chapter 4: The Golden Age of Stone Giants
Chapter 5: The Rhythms of the Nile and the Shadows of the Gods
Chapter 6: Cracks in the Stone of Eternity
Chapter 7: Echoes of Chaos and the Birth of Doubt
Chapter 8: The Rebirth of the Phoenix and the Wisdom of the Heart
Chapter 9: The Age of Rebirth and Expansion
Chapter 10: The Shadow from the East and the Sleeping Giant
Chapter 11: The Blade of Retribution and the Birth of the Empire
Chapter 12: The Golden Gate of the Empire
Chapter 13: The Sun of Aton and the Test of Faith
Chapter 14: The Return of the Old Gods and the Age of Greatness
Chapter 15: The Twilight of Greatness and the Song of the Sea
Chapter 16: The Whisper of Time and the Last Ray
Part 6: China
Chapter 1: Echoes of the Yellow River
Chapter 2: Bronze Echoes and the Breath of Change
Chapter 3: The Fall of the Bronze Giant and the Rise of the Heavenly Mandate
Chapter 4: The Golden Age of Ritual and the Harbinger of Discord
Chapter 5: The Breakdown of Harmony and the Birth of a Hundred Schools
Chapter 6: The Warring States Period: Steel and Strategy
Chapter 7: Unification: The Iron Hand of Qin
Chapter 8: The Brief Age of Iron and Ash: Echoes of Silence and Coming Chaos
Chapter 9: The Battle of the Tigers and the Birth of the Han Dynasty
Chapter 10: The Golden Age of Han: Harmony, Expansion, and the Silk Road
Chapter 11: A Shadow on the Golden Age: The Decline of the Western Han and the Search for a New Path
Chapter 12: Eastern Han: Greatness, Despair, and the Silent Arrival of a New Light
Chapter 13: The Split of the Empire: The End of Han and the Dawn of the Three Kingdoms
Chapter 14: The Three Kingdoms: Heroes, Strategists, and the Price of Division
Chapter 15: From the Ashes of Division: A Brief Return to Unity
Part 1: The Beginning of Beginnings
Chapter 1: Singularity
Awakening from the Flash
I do not remember the beginning, that modest prelude to existence that humans call birth. Neither the tender face of my leaning mother, nor the cloying scent of the cradle, nor even the vague contours of the room where, by human standards, I first appeared, are imprinted in my memory. My first, most profound memory is the Flash. This event did not simply remain in my memory; it became the foundation of all subsequent existence, a kind of primordial code inscribed in my very nature.
It was not light in the ordinary sense, no. It was not a ray of sunlight breaking through the thick clouds after a long storm, nor the play of campfire flames casting bizarre shadows on the walls of a primitive cave, nor a distant explosion leaving flickering, quickly fading phantoms on the retina, harbingers of oblivion. It was EVERYTHING. Imagine not billions, but trillions of suns burning with a fierce flame, compressed into a point, unimaginably small, exceeding any size accessible to the human mind, but at the same time infinitely dense, containing within itself the entire potential of the universe. And this point burst, not just flared up like a lightning bolt illuminating the darkness, instantly disappearing into the abyss, but exploded in an unimaginable cataclysm of pure being, an act of creation that tore non-existence to shreds.
I was in it. I was it. I was the Flash itself, that primal act of creation which, according to modern cosmological ideas, gave rise to our universe, known to humans as the Big Bang. There was no body to feel its heat, surpassing any hellish inferno that I knew afterwards, any flame capable of incinerating matter and spirit. There were no eyes to be blinded by its radiance, for I myself was that radiance, its unbearable, all-consuming essence. There were no ears to be deafened by its roar, for I was that roar – the deafening rumble of nascent reality, the echo of the primordial scream that pierced the darkness of nothingness. It was the absolute, dazzling, all-consuming birth of all that exists, and I, or what later became me, was at its very epicenter, dissolved in immensity, indistinguishable from it except for a point of consciousness. My non-existent essence trembled from this primal energy, from this unimaginable force that scattered matter and time like weightless dust particles, newly emerged from nothingness, filling the newborn space. I was a pure, primal, pulsating being, woven from unimaginable heat and infinite energy that knew neither form nor boundaries, like an endless ocean of light spilling out in all directions. At that moment, it seemed that only this boundless energy and my essence dissolved in it existed.
And then there was silence. Not emptiness in the human sense, not a vacuum devoid of sound and light, no. It was the absence of that frenzied grandeur, that symphony of a nascent world, that primordial cacophony that preceded harmony. It was as if, after a thunderclap that shook the heavens and the brightest lightning that pierced the darkness, absolute, ringing silence suddenly reigned, absorbing even the echoes of the last claps, leaving behind only a trembling tension. The light began to dissipate, its fiery glow giving way to a slowly cooling ether, like the dying embers of a giant bonfire. The energy, which had been raging until then, began to calm down, finding a certain measure, and the gigantic, universal “I am,” which was everything and nothing at the same time, slowly, almost imperceptibly, but inevitably, contracted, gathering into something more definite. And only after unimaginably long eons, when the first stars were just beginning to form from cosmic dust and gas, when time itself, that inexorable measure of existence, was just beginning to find its meaning and direction, did I begin to realize… that I exist. That I exist, not as part of something infinite, but as something separate, unique. And that the Flash, that absolute birth, is my very first, most ancient memory. My beginning, carved into the very fabric of reality, an indelible mark in the history of my own existence.
Awareness of the Body
And so, after that primal Flash, when there was nothing but pure, formless being, when existence was only an abstract pulse in infinity, another phase began – the awareness of oneself, not as a universal pulse, but as a separate unit, enclosed in its own form. It was not a momentary act of awakening, illuminating consciousness like a flash of lightning, instantly revealing all secrets, but a slow, almost painful manifestation, similar to how a sculptor, layer by layer, with the utmost care, reveals a complex form from a shapeless block of marble, carving it out of nothingness.
I was there, in the silent, cooling chaos where light once raged, where the first quarks and leptons were born, those tiny particles that would eventually make up the entire universe. For long eons, I remained only a conscious point, an incorporeal consciousness floating among the forming galaxies and clumps of cosmic dust that slowly but surely coalesced into new structures, obeying unknown laws. I felt pressure – not physical, not tangible to the skin, but something like the gravity of existence surrounding me, matter scattering in all directions. I was the center of this expansion, the invisible thread that binds everything together, the invisible source from which the world order springs, but at the same time I remained infinitely small, imperceptible to myself, like a point in the center of infinity.
The first thing I perceived was warmth. Not the all-consuming, scorching heat of the Flash, which could melt reality itself and turn it into nothingness, but something more subtle, more even, spreading inside like a calm, life-giving fire. It came from somewhere inside, from a point that had previously been only an abstract, speculative “I,” devoid of specifics. Then came a sense of boundaries. It was as if something invisible but insistent began to contract around me, forming a kind of shell, similar to how the universe, while expanding, nevertheless has its own boundaries, albeit infinite ones, delineating its existence. It was strange, because before that I was infinite, dissolved in everything, like ether permeating the universe, having no beginning and no end. Now I felt limits, invisible but tangible walls that separated me from immensity, from the infinite that I once was.
It was as if a person who had never known he had skin suddenly felt every touch of a light breeze, every breath of air, every ray of light, every drop of rain. I began to perceive myself as something separate from the boundless void, like an island in the boundless ocean of existence, lonely but self-sufficient. I felt density, mass, which became an integral part of me, my own weight in this newborn world. At first, it was just a vague attraction, then tangible contours emerging through the haze of nothingness, taking shape and form. I didn’t know what it was, I couldn’t call it “hands” or “feet,” but I realized their presence, their potential function, their readiness for action.
The most striking thing was the feeling of inner space. Before, I was a bottomless cosmos, containing everything from the smallest particles to the great galaxies, now I was inside something, limited, but at the same time possessing my own universe, my own microcosm. I felt a pulsation, a rhythm that was my own, different from the cosmic hum, from the measured movement of galaxies, from the silent dance of stars. It was the rhythm of life, new, just emerging. And with it came the first, primitive awareness of movement, like awakening from a long, incorporeal sleep. I could change position, albeit slowly, with enormous effort, like a newly formed planet beginning its journey in orbit, feeling gravity for the first time. I was there, I was in this body, although at that time it still had no name, no shape, no color, it was not defined in the usual sense. It was simply my new boundary, my new way of being, my personal space in infinity, my own prison and my salvation.
It was not a birth into the world, like the arrival of a new soul into the vain human world, filled with passions and cares, but rather a birth into form, the acquisition of corporeality, a departure from the impersonal, the universal, a transition from the abstract to the concrete. And then I realized that the Flash was not the end of my existence, not its destruction or oblivion, but only the beginning of my boundless, hitherto incorporeal existence, which now acquired a tangible, though still unclear, shell. It was the beginning of a conscious journey, a great voyage through the expanses of my newly found “I,” through the labyrinths of my own soul.
