Wake up. Breathe. Repeat. Enthused by the mundane, the chipped mug, the traffic hum, the way the light hits the dust just right at 3:11pm. You start to realize that seeing is being, not metaphorically, not poetically — literally. Perception is the engine. You notice your own noticing. You become a camera with skin, a soul with pupils. The sacred leaks in through the seams: chipped tile becomes altar, small talk becomes code, toast crumbs on the bench are a constellation of proof that life is still happening. You aren’t special. You’re awake. That’s enough.