We exist in a chaotic age—unceasing and relentless. We elevate ourselves and our surroundings, clinging to inflated perceptions of worth, yet beneath it all, we are but a fleeting insignificance. Time crushes us without mercy, history loops in flawless repetition, and though we clearly see the trajectory, we fail, time and again, to extract wisdom from the past. Instead, we regress as a civilization. We lose sight of our purpose—or perhaps, we never truly understood it. Excuses and justifications have become our cherished tools, while finger-pointing is civilization's favourite pastime. The mirror, once a portal for self-reflection, now serves only to indulge our vanity and feed our basest desires. From the safety of our homes, we wage righteous wars for justice, equality, and liberty. And yet, liberty itself, my friends, has become a sickness—a virus. A soothing paralysis. From that position, we create a false future, empty stories for our children. The play 12 is a glaring reflection of our incompetence. Incompetence! Nothing more than a faint glimmer amidst the shadows of spiritual decay. Are we here merely to narrate our story? I am filled with doubt. What is the worth of a human life? I believe in the sheer will to endure—but not in destruction. Is belief alone sufficient? Can we still believe at all? And if so, in whom or what? Perhaps we overestimate our significance. Perhaps we are capable of vanishing in an instant. Fury is nothing but a dull miscalculation—a bridge to the shores of broken promises and shattered expectations. The play 12 is not just a reflection but a prelude—a foreword to all our failures.
