What appears is not taken up. Not rejected. Not held at a distance. Simply not carried forward.

There is awareness, but it does not gather. It does not collect what is present into anything usable. Nothing is prepared for later.

Experience passes without being archived. Not erased, not dismissed— just allowed to remain unclaimed.

This is unfamiliar. Most moments are immediately enlisted. They become reference, leverage, orientation. Here, nothing recruits them.

The reflex to turn what is present into material arises, then stops short. Material for understanding. Material for continuity. Material for meaning.

None of that engages.

What remains is light, but not in the sense of ease. Light because nothing is added. Light because nothing is being carried away.

This is not detachment. Detachment would require distance. Here, contact is intact, only ownership is absent.

There is a quiet trust in not taking up what does not ask to be borne. No decision enforces this. It happens without authorship.

Attention does not harden into memory. Sensation does not harden into claim. The moment stays momentary.

Nothing resolves. Nothing accumulates. But nothing is lost.

And in not being taken up, what is present remains free to pass through without residue.