An interesting suggestion was suggested in my reading of the always interesting A.H. Strong: the unconscious soul.
I’m having a really hard time conceiving of an unconscious soul. What would it be? What is the least soul if not the barest consciousness? What life without an awareness, however dim, focused and limited on a point of existence–limited and aware that it is and it is not what is not it?
* * *
It waited. It paused imperfectly in the first of its existence. What did it pause from? What desist? It had just gathered, just received that charge of life and now it waited in the twinkling moments of subsequent darkness of its original transformation . . .
Waited for what? For something not itself, it seemed, somehow to touch and that way indicate a difference between subject and object for the first . . . or second time?
Of course, it waited without knowing that it waited, but for the first time full of the possibility of consciousness. A lurch, a warmth discovered washing over it, a rhythm in the furthest depths–of what and how?–it felt. Mingled were sounds and colors and sensations, joy and envy, sorrow and pleasure washing over the newly conscious soul. And the brain afterward developing perhaps, an echo of consciousness forming in the head inside the womb.
It had desisted, paused from its original unconsciousness, of course.