There is a kind of awakening that does not celebrate.
It does not gather likes. It is not shared.
I am talking about the refusal to sleep again.
This is not about sleeplessness of the nervous system.
This is a deeper insomnia – spiritual, archetypal.
A refusal to collapse into the anesthesia of the age.
A refusal to comply with the dominant atmospheric lull.
A refusal to normalize deadness.
Like a sentinel of another time.
Like the ghost of a future that still believes in us.
The next stage is anchorage.
Not upward, but downward.
Not into escapist mysticism or aesthetic rebellion,
but into the grit of presence.
The sleepless must learn to metabolize their perception.
To transform seeing into action.
To turn vertical awareness into horizontal fidelity.
This means learning to live in two atmospheres at once:
one in which the soul breathes, and one in which the soul is slowly crushed.
To become the meeting point between these.
That is the labor.
The sleepless spring is not a theory.
It is a felt call, an echo from beneath the foundations of the present.