12:00 — Consent to Begin

12:00 — I wake. Not late. Delayed on purpose. There were studies in the morning. I didn't miss them — I confirmed I wouldn't go.

I need to lock myself in and begin. I have always started late. But I don't arrive gently — I come like thunder. You'll catch the sound. The light would blind you, so wear glasses.

Back to 12:00. The day waits for my consent.

Water on my face. Clothes over a body still undecided. The mirror holds something between a person and a decision — I don't linger long enough to find out which.

A white taxi — cheap, functional. But even there — the way a seat is offered says everything the price doesn't. Dignity isn't purchased. It leaks through gesture, through whether someone looks at you before or after you pay.

Some mornings I put on headphones not to hear music — but to hear myself. Or fragments of songs when I grow tired of my own voice. Today, nothing. Just sitting, listening to a silence that doesn't belong to the world — but to me.

Five minutes stretch into something heavier. I arrive.

Words move between mouths with nothing held inside them — language without weight, people rehearsing existence. I let it pass. Not judgment. Recognition. I have rehearsed too.

One intention left: a cigarette before five hours of endurance.

Not the smoke — the ignition. To burn through whatever has been nesting in me. To feel something primitive — proof that I'm still here. There is a version of prayer that doesn't face upward. It faces inward, strikes a match, and asks: am I still combustible? Do I still catch?

Then dizziness. Then numbness. Not peace. Not clarity. Just the edge, going soft.

I'm in class. Nothing more. Nothing before. A table. A module. A laptop. The fluorescent light makes everyone look like they are waiting to be somewhere else. Perhaps they are. Perhaps that is where philosophy begins — the suspicion that the present is only a rehearsal for a scene that never arrives.

And you — or the idea of you. Whatever keeps the eyes moving when the mind has already left.

There is a difference between what you are aware of and what your awareness can hold. You say there is no limit — and you are right. But even the limitless draws a line within itself — not as a wall, but as a return address. A place the self mails itself back to when it has traveled too far from its own name.

The clock clicks. Time clings — then breaks, arriving as a gift you didn't know you were owed.

A message arrives. You take it to the end — and jump.

Into the labyrinth, where every answer returns as a riddle. But a labyrinth is not a prison — it is a philosophy of patience. You are not meant to escape it. You are meant to discover what you become inside it.

In the presence of one — we split into two: I — and the others.

The third is afraid to appear — the self that knows without wanting to know. The fourth — a devil, not evil but dividing: the one that holds two truths simultaneously and calls that suffering. The fifth — the place you seek, you pass through daily without recognition, a door you keep mistaking for a wall. The sixth — a seraphim above Sisyphus, watching the endless ascent not with pity — but with envy. Because the seraphim has nowhere left to climb.

And it began — from a finger. Crossing a dimension — a strike — the one you have always remembered as thunder.

And the will of a feather — unfolded, certain.