Yesterday was December 2.

The moment I woke up, there was a strange tremor inside me. It felt as if I was not rising from a bed, but emerging out of a darkness. For an instant I thought I was back in a womb; then I sensed that silent void pushing me outward, toward another realm. It felt as if I were being born. Familiar and ancient, like a memory from before memory.

This thought stayed with me the entire day.

A baby in the womb lives inside its own universe; for it, everything is contained there. A baby believes the womb is the whole cosmos. That dark shelter is its sky, a cosmic tent with walls that shimmer like distant stars. The cord is a channel carrying light and nourishment from the center of that universe. If a baby could speak and ask what happens after death, who could explain to it that it will be born? When its tiny world collapses, how could it know that a wider world is waiting?

Maybe we too are inside such a riddle. Maybe birth is the death of one universe, and death is the birth of another. Maybe nothing ends; it simply changes places.

This thought suddenly softened the fear from the morning nightmare. What frightened me was not dying. It was stepping into what I could not yet see.

In the evening, as always, I opened my history notebook. What had happened on December 2?

On December 2, 1804, Napoleon crowned himself. Instead of taking the crown from the hands of the pope, he placed it on his own head. That day he told the entire world a simple message: I create myself.

But yesterday I understood something: A person may try to shape themselves however they wish, yet between the place they are born and the place they will be born again, they walk through the same field of uncertainty.

Napoleon did not choose his birth, nor do we choose our end.

Power is sometimes nothing more than a game, a mirage that makes us forget the borders of fate.

December 2 made me think this: Perhaps none of us is the ruler of our own story. We all move toward an unseen birth. And life is only a bridge swinging between these two beginnings.

Last night I whispered to myself:

Maybe today I was being born again. Maybe a dark womb inside me was closing, and without realizing it I was preparing for the light of another world.

Yesterday’s story was heavy. But what it made me feel was incredibly light: Every human is born many times throughout life. And every birth begins with darkness.