December 15. Monday, the Hour of Gray Light. I awaken not to a sound, but to a peculiar sense of presence within my own skin, as if overnight the architecture of my soul has been rearranged without my knowledge. I close my eyes again, not to sleep, but to truly see. Today, within me is a forest at sunrise. This is not merely a metaphor, but a topography of consciousness; a space where the shadows of the night – those ancient, atavistic fears and unsolved dreams – slowly recede before an inevitable, soft luminescence. There is mist, of course. It is thick and humid, carrying the scent of last year’s leaf litter, of all that has decayed to nourish the soil of the present. In the psychoanalytic sense, this fog is the protective veil of the unconscious, which softens the collision between reality and the internal myth, but today the sunbeams pierce it with surgical precision. They do not cut; they caress. They illuminate particles of dust, turning them into gold, and in this dance b...