Diluculum Copyright © Abraham Cezar , 2025 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photographic, recording, or otherwise — without prior written permission from the author. This work is protected by the Copyright Law (Law No. 9.610/98) and the Berne Convention (Decree No. 75.699/1975). Image Curation and Editing Abraham Cezar Preparation and Review Abraham Cezar Image Credits Page 74 - Summum Bonum by Robert Fludd. Page 132 - Ezekiel's Vision, Luther, Martin, 1483-1546. International Cataloging in Publication Data (CIP) (Brazilian Book Chamber, SP, Brazil) Systematic Catalog Indexes: 1. Kabbalah : Spirituality 296.16 Aline Graziele Benitez - Librarian - CRB-1/3129 All rights reserved to ABRAHAM NUNES CEZAR SCHNEERSOHN There is a memory before memory — and this book attempts to touch it. Table of Contents The Labyrinth of the Mind The Mirror That Does Not Reflect The Not-So-Invisible Self When Time Collapses in the Body The Self, the You, and Perhaps the We Thought x Conscious x Unconscious Consciousness in the Face of Fear The Enigma of Time and the Eternity of the Mind The Weavers of Destiny The Sacred Right to Change The Homeostasis of the Soul My Museum of Shadows The Inner Temple of Emotions Reason Bowed to Mystery The Shadows of the Mirror: Dissonance Alchemy of Boundaries The Invisible Kingdom Codes of Light x Invisible Fog: The Spiritual Impact of Modern Electromagnetic Radiation Inner Silence: The Cradle of Being Kabbalah Before Silence Da’at: The Incandescent Crown of the Invisible That Knows Shevirat Hakelim: When Light Overflowed the Infinite Gilgul Hanefesh: The Secret Circle of Souls The Exile of the Spark: Reincarnations in the Subsoil of Creation The Secret of the Letters: The Code of Being The Mysticism of the Divine Name: The Tetragrammaton and the Maps of Light Kabbalah: Meditations and Rituals The Work of Returning to Non-Being The Five Portals of Transcendence The Unfathomable Fullness of the Void About the Author Reference Points Title Page Cover Copyright Page Dedication Main Body of the Work Contributors Table of Contents Author's Note This book does not aim to discuss religions, dogmas, or beliefs. Although it contains reflections inspired by Kabbalah, its approach is detached from any religious bias. The choice of this theme was made exclusively due to the author's personal experience with this tradition and not with doctrinal intent. I reiterate here my profound respect for all religions and systems of faith. In the beginning, sound was not sound. It was a timid intention, a shiver of nothingness suspecting it could be something. Then came rhythm — not out of a desire for music, but out of a longing for order. Chaos envied symmetry. And it danced. God was not yet God. It was just a question mark dizzy with consciousness. It questioned itself. And that was light. That’s when time, that intern of eternity, decided to walk. One step for doubt, two for desire, and it stumbled — into matter. The first stone? It was a thought that forgot to be light. The first tree? An idea that took root by mistake. The first body? A gesture that got stuck in a mirror. Flesh didn’t come with a manual, but it came with sleep. And sleep invented dreams, just so the impossible could have a place to rehearse. The mind emerged late, but it made sure to appear as the author. It collected reasons, explained death before understanding the morning, wrote manuals for feelings that only opened with tears. Meanwhile, the heart, that gearless engine, kept beating as if it knew something that no one else remembered. Love came — not out of nobility, but from a glitch in the code of loneliness. A welcome crack. We looked at each other, and it hurt. That’s why we continued. Cities came. We stacked fears and called them buildings. We surrounded doubt with concrete and gave the absurd the name “routine.” But deep inside, very deep, there was always a bird — not a soul, but an instinct for verticality. Have you ever felt it? The sensation that they forgot to explain the essential to you, but you keep going anyway, like someone who knows a secret without knowing what it is? Then, poetry came. Not the kind that rhymes. But the kind that remembers. It came to say that the invisible is real, but shy. That silence is an ancient language, and that all longing is, in fact, a memory of something that hasn’t happened yet. And that’s why I write: because maybe someone — you — is on the verge of remembering. ...what we call “I” is just a poorly read signature, scribbled by an author who writes with light but forgot the vowels. All identity, deep down, is borrowed. A garment worn by consciousness just so it can play “human.” But what if the name you repeat every day isn’t your true name, but the echo of a call you haven’t yet answered? What if your face is just a metaphor that your ancestors carved out of fear of being lost? What if you’re closer to doubt than to certainty? The gods... ah, those old retired stars who now live in memes and marketing — they didn’t die. They turned into neurotransmitters. Mars is a spike of cortisol. Aphrodite, a well-placed oxytocin. Hermes, a thought too fast to sleep. And you invoke them without an altar, without knowing. Every impulse of yours is a myth in beta version. Have you noticed? The unconscious is just the backstage where the Real takes off its shoes. There, fear caresses your courage and love wears the clothes of anger just to test your listening. And time? Ah, time never moved forward. It’s circular, like an elegant excuse the universe found for you to revisit your lessons with new disguises. That’s why encounters repeat themselves. That’s why you dream of things you’ve never lived. That’s why certain glances tell you, “I’m back,” while everything around insists on, “Nice to meet you, who are you?” There is a memory before memory. And it is this that this poem tries to touch. The Labyrinth of the Mind The Mirror That Does Not Reflect I magine the mind as the epicenter of a cosmic cathedral, an intricate invisible architecture where subtle forces conspire, not merely to translate the intangible into the concrete, but to intone the primordial symphony of existence. It is not a mirror that replicates, but a translucent stained glass, revealing not what is, but what yearns to become. In this hidden theater of Creation, every thought is a stellar seed, an embryo of reality resting in gestation within the invisible womb of being. This principle — that the universe is mental in its essence — is not a metaphysical whim, but a vibrational law that sustains the very loom of existence. Before a star flares in the veil of night, a spark of intention already pulsed in the bosom of primordial Consciousness. So it is with us: what we experience in the sensible plane is the echo, the reflection, the consequence of gears moved in the silence of the soul. In the Sefer ha-Zohar, we read that “ everything that is revealed was first hidden. ” Here lies the key that unveils the architecture of the invisible: every thought is born from a point of origin that transcends logic. We are threads of light interwoven in the weavings of the Tree of Life, and our ideas, when purified, are like Hebrew letters that, according to the Sefer ha- Temunah, structure reality itself. But thinking is, by nature, an ambivalent act, almost alchemical. The mind — that hydra of a thousand eyes — oscillates between the impulse to tame the mystery and the vertigo of losing itself in its fascination. Between the map and the journey, between the script and the improvisation. Control desires firm margins, while freedom yearns for the open ocean. Two halves of the same existential atom. This tension — between containment and surrender — is the very heartbeat of the internal cosmos. Like a pendulum eternally flirting with gravity and infinity, the human being carries within the sacred geometry of creation and dissolution. In the Bahir, we learn that light reveals itself through form and, at the same time, transcends it. When control imposes itself as a tyrant, rigidity is born: a prison adorned with golden bars, where spontaneity is silenced. The mind, then, crystallizes — a closed archive that repels the new. But if freedom dominates without criteria, collapse ensues: an expansion without a center, where consciousness dissolves into the abyss of its own vastness. Neuroscience, our contemporary cartographer of the soul, reveals that this ballet between order and chaos is orchestrated by the fine synapses that connect the prefrontal cortex — the throne of reason and planning — to the limbic system, the ancestral temple of emotions. On this dance depends whether we will be sculptors of destiny or mere puppets of impulses disguised as will. The mind, thus understood, is simultaneously a power plant and a prison. Every thought vibrates as a frequency. Every belief, a distorting lens. Every choice, a crossroads between infinite lines of reality. Cultivating the mind, therefore, is not merely purging it of cognitive toxins, but tuning it to the tuning fork of Creation, to the quantum score where everything that could be already pulses in a latent state. Mental freedom is not the absence of limits, but the mastery to choose them with consciousness. It is the art of knowing when to cast anchors and when to hoist sails. It is navigating the now with the skill of a cosmic helmsman, who reads the winds of the invisible and recognizes that true free will is not “doing what one wants,” but “knowing what one does and why one wants it.” But here lies an enigma that whispers in silence: most of our choices are not, in fact, choices. They are