Threshold 4 07

Threshold 4:07

A meditative novella about time that doesn't exist — and the freedom that comes from within

Author’s Note
Recorded at dawn. Almost at the border between sleep and silence.
Sometimes you wake up not because you’ve had enough sleep, and not because someone called you. But because something inside you woke up first. Before you yourself did.

That’s what happened to me.

This morning — or rather, this threshold between night and light, between yesterday and today — left a mark on me.
Not with an event. But with a sensation.

A sense that there is a moment when everything pauses — and in that pause, you can hear yourself. Hear the world. Hear the truth.

Not the one in the news or books. But the one that lives in the rustle of leaves, in the step of a random passerby, in the chirping of crickets — if only you haven’t slept through it.

I didn’t wake up — I entered.
Into silence.
Into thought.
Into freedom.

And if this story is not really a story, but a meditation, a passage, a brief moment of attention — may it find within you that place which remembers what it means to be alive.
To be free.
And simply... not asleep.

— Daniel Ryberg



I. AWAKENING. THE THRESHOLD
Eric woke up…
No — he awoke.

Something vague, light yet persistent, touched him from within — and stirred him with a sense of unease.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 4:07.
A very strange time.
Not quite night, not yet morning.

A border. A threshold.
A time that seems not to exist — and yet exists only for those who suddenly awaken.

He remembered: somewhere he had read that this hour is when gates open. Portals.
The moment of transition from one world to another.

And suddenly — a thought, sharp as a needle, pierced his head from right to left:
“Maybe this is my transition?”

Or was it just a signal?
A bell. A hint. An invitation?

The unease didn’t fade. But along with it grew a strange sense of surrender to something inevitable.

As if there was no need to resist.
As if it had already begun.

He wasn’t fully awake yet. His mind was foggy — but through the mist came a thought:
4:07 isn’t a time. It’s a code.

He had seen those numbers before.
And now they were here again.

That thought woke him completely.



II. FALLING LEAVES. WHISPERS OF THE STREET
Through the open window came the breathing of the street.

Early autumn.
The leaves still clung to the trees, but the wind — impatient and playful — had already begun to carry them away.

It rustled along the sidewalks as if it knew exactly how to arrange them beautifully.
The leaves seemed to thank it for its elegance.

Everything around paused in a rhythm understood only by the morning and the wind.

There were few passersby — only scattered silhouettes.
Their steps lifted the leaves into short, playful dances.

Shoes and sneakers stepped into the "ginger snow," while the leaves rose and fell with a mix of mischief and dignity.

There was something alive in it all.
As if a Nymph of the morning threshold were watching the dance — and each leaf was her messenger.

Tiny fairies — not supernatural, but earthly, kind, touching — they had entered the not-yet-begun daily life of Eric.

He listened to the rustling until he rose and approached the window.

He had been right:
on the sidewalk walked a chubby young man — shuffling his feet, as if remembering something important.

It was his gait that awakened the leaves — they rose and swirled around him like delighted children.

Joy — strange, elusive — walked the pavement.
The wind carried it all the way to the stars, still lingering in the sky.



III. TIMELESS TIME
When Eric’s hearing was saturated with this morning wonder, he suddenly noticed something new — forgotten:
the voices of crickets.

What were they trying to say?
Maybe simply: "we’re still here"?
Maybe it was a signal — to their own, to the living?

Whatever it was, Eric felt it — he had entered another biological world.
Not because it only exists at this hour — but because only now could it be heard, received — and received him.

A special state: the night was over, but the morning had not yet begun.
No single time — and yet, both times present.

A feeling that time had stopped moving.

"Could time have a neutral zone?" — he wondered.
"Like borders. Like the pause between inhale and exhale."

This thought absorbed him, dissolved him.
Thoughts came and went.

But one stayed:
"There is no night anymore... and there is no day yet."

He felt it so clearly that he froze.

He had become neutral.
Independent of time.
He had found freedom — within.



IV. LIBERATION. FESTIVALS OF THE SOUL
“Independence,” he whispered.

Not just a word.
Not just a holiday in July.
A state.
A point.
A force.

He remembered two holidays especially dear to him:
Independence Day — the 4th of July — and Passover — the ancient Jewish holiday.

One — national.
The other — internal.
Both — about freedom.

Passover is not just the exodus from Egypt.
It symbolizes liberation from external slavery — yes.

But more importantly — it reminds us of inner slavery.
Of habits, fears, attachments.
Of the dependencies we hide behind politeness and success.

“Freedom is not given.
It is not handed to you.
It is fought for.” — he thought.

Once, historically, freedom came at a cost.
Now — the battle is within.

The world masks slavery in soft words:
Attachment
Habit
Addiction

All of it sticks to the ego — the dearest thing we have.
Freedom means separating from that sticky layer.

Only in the silence between worlds do I feel free, Eric told himself.
Only here can I be not someone — but myself.



V. FINALE. CADENZA
The city was waking up.

The early shuffling of solitary souls had passed — now the sounds of the city entered.

Car doors.
Footsteps.
The voice of the street.

A garbage truck finished it all off with a cadenza — the finale of a symphony.

The birth of a new day.

Eric smiled.
Closed his eyes.

And maybe… drifted off again.
But this time — on the other side of 4:07.