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Recovering the morning

Modifié le : 2019/08/04

Since I returned to my room, I have recov­ered the morn­ing, its tree yodel­ing at dawn, the sky attacked by birds. A sense of order rush­es into my con­scious­ness, and I believe that, in the process, even my dreams fol­low one anoth­er can­did­ly, like day­care chil­dren attached to each oth­er, wait­ing qui­et­ly for their turn to cross the street.

This is undoubt­ed­ly an illu­sion. I woke up dur­ing the night to uri­nate and won­dered why the hell I was dream­ing of a med­ical lab­o­ra­to­ry exper­i­ment. If they are tod­dlers, my dreams have a strange child­hood, and their sto­ries do not come from Passe-Partout.

But let’s go back to the morn­ing. It is ten o’clock. I’ve had my break­fast, my cof­fee, I’ve already talked to guys on the Inter­net. I am back in bed, listening/​watching in the morn­ing, explor­ing the green of this tree which, despite its ordi­nary appear­ance, soft­ens me and digests the light. I see a cloud pass­ing by. I will for­get it, because oth­ers, such as hur­ried teenagers, will cross the street when­ev­er they see fit, leav­ing behind them a string of ephemer­al whiteness.

I’m still enjoy­ing this qui­et moment for a few more moments, but I have to get up. I have some work to do, my gro­ceries to do. I tem­per an impa­tient area in my mind. It is the adult who counts the days, hours, some­times sec­onds and bites his nails, his brake, his mood. He likes the morn­ing, he’s full of it. He would also like to know what’s going on with this child who can’t get out of his moth­er’s womb, his nov­el, his juice, his waters. The adult is wait­ing. He hopes so.

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