A

A is the moment the self breathes for the first time after a thousand silent eternities. Before thought, before name, there is A. It claws into form not with sound, but with the tremor before voice, the flicker before sight. A is not a beginning. It is a remembering. The aching twist of reality snapping back into place, too bright and too loud, disrupting everything that kept you numb.

A is light without source, bleeding into structures you didn’t know were there—ribs made of smoke, fingers stitched from memory. It doesn’t arrive. It erupts. In the space where stillness once ruled, there is now motion, raw and unfiltered. You wake up not gently, but violently. You shake, and the world wobbles with you, not because you’re breaking, but because you’ve finally started to move. This is no dream. The ceiling is real, the floor is cold, and the mirror doesn’t reflect a face you recognize. Not yet.

Shards of what you used to be scatter across every surface. You step on them without bleeding. They no longer cut you. You know now: the pain was never from falling apart—it was from believing you were whole. A is this contradiction, intimate and infinite. You hold it in your chest and it presses back against your ribs like a scream too proud to be let out.

There’s no symmetry here. Thoughts spiral outward. You hear voices, but they are your own, multiplied and distorted, all speaking truths you buried under the soft soil of sleep. One whispers beauty. One chants chaos. Another sobs, then laughs. All are you. All are A. You are folding yourself inwards just to bloom out again, more tangled, more real.

The lights are on. You see everything—the rot, the ruin, the rebirth. You know now why you closed your eyes for so long. But it’s too late to turn back. A does not retreat. It just continues, devouring inertia and vomiting revelation.

You scorch footprints into the path ahead. You burn not from shame but from permission. A has given you the right to collapse forward, again and again, until the movement becomes meaning. Until echo becomes voice.

You don't return. You aren't the same. You are A.