My mind… I have the impression to find it, with each awakening, white and without words, a desert of dried up dreams, heavily motionless, rolled in soft and asphyxiating dunes. The page is blank, sterile as a cliché, the day is blue, cold, a winter that has snowed. They’re just writer’s illusions. Outside, the city is still as nervous as ever, birds shiver and make do with the wind. If I widen the circle of my geography, I will encounter the pitfalls of daily life, of canyon water. The universe is anything but silence.
But sitting in my bed right now, with my back against pillows, my body trying to go back to sleep, my thoughts annihilated, cemented in a palimpsest expectation, locked up in an aging comfort, I just breathe.
The oxygen in my lungs, the blood in my veins, these words in my imagination, are waiting, purring. I hear footsteps in my memory. Something approaches, then stops, seems to turn around. As if we shouldn’t disturb hopes.