Public Confession (Restricted)
Logbook of Insanity No. 100326
02:05 — Between Night and Day
Do you know how dawn happens?
It begins with a moment where everything seems suspended in a thin layer of silence. Where everything walks on tiptoe. Until some more sensitive bird notices that the light has changed and warns the others.
Then there isn’t a clamor of birds, nor the weight of the sun on the sheets.
What comes is the slow ascent of my soul from the depths of an ocean of nothingness, dense and silver, where the pressure of silence was the only thing confirming the existence of a body.
Today I woke with this feeling that I had died.
Nothing makes sense.
The light coming through the half-open curtains is not light; it was a clinical brightness, a strange light, drawing pale stripes across the skin, where dust danced in suspension—like tiny souls neglected by a distracted god.
And I have a taste of copper and forgotten time in my mouth, a dryness that recalled the fevers of pasts forgotten in a drawer, that precise moment when air became a luxury item and breathing, an act of desperate resistance.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, the world seemed like an underdeveloped photograph, an overlay of realities where the furniture was solid enough to touch but devoid of that vital vibration that anchored it to the present.
The feeling was of being an intruder in a house that no longer recognized me, a ghost wearing someone else’s skin, yet feeling, beneath the thin fabric of the nightgown, the chill of a void that was not physical.
The silence of the street, once filled with human chaos, now echoed like the interior of an abandoned cathedral, where each heartbeat sounded like a profanation.
It was as if the great sieve of fate had passed over the Earth and, through some miscalculation or cosmic irony, I had slipped through the gaps, remaining on this barren margin while the rest of the caravan moved toward a destination my gaze could no longer reach.
Every movement was a choreography of shadows; fingers, when touching the face, sought the roughness of life, the warmth of blood running beneath the surface, but found only the marble smoothness of someone who had passed through fire and emerged not consumed, but petrified.
Where life should pulse with the urgency of desire and the rawness of conflict, there was only this hole of nothingness, an absence that resembled freedom but carried the unbearable weight of irrelevance.
If death is the absence of witnesses, then being there, in that room bathed in a dim light, was the apex of an unfinished transition.
The sensuality of the world—the smell of coffee, the touch of the breeze, the sound of a voice—had become a tactile memory, something observed through thick glass, desiring pain only to feel that the membrane between “self” and “world” had not yet completely ruptured.
I’ve changed what I could change, and I’m still trapped in the same place.
Walking in circles.
Or are they spirals of smoke?