Modifié le : 2019/07/31

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.