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.