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The inner poetry

Modifié le : 2019/08/06

Peo­ple are liv­ing their win­ter. The first great breath passed and left snow, freez­ing rain, and final­ly, a great cold that washed the sky for two days. I expe­ri­enced some of those sea­son­al swirls in bed, then got up and worked in the house. I have had great dif­fi­cul­ty falling asleep in recent days, both because of the com­mon cold and for good and diverse rea­sons. For two nights, the City’s snow­plows took, it seems to me, an eter­ni­ty to scrape in front of my door, pre­ced­ed by the mil­i­tary horns of the tug­boats warn­ing recal­ci­trant motorists to get out of the way before being towed.

This morn­ing, how­ev­er, the sun, a very cold, tight, invig­o­rat­ing like alco­hol. I took out the garbage cans and bags from my work. Then I went around the block, time to notice the sun, the ner­vous smoke of the fire­places, to hur­ry home, to put on my indoor clothes, to pack the pil­lows of my bed, to sit down and grab the lap­top com­put­er and, as I wrote, to feel the call of sleep.

I would still be sleep­ing, but every­thing calls for work, account­abil­i­ty, and respon­si­bil­i­ty. I promise myself to return to the prac­tice of yoga, because, at this moment, with my eyes closed and my fin­gers flut­ter­ing on the key­board, my head rest­ing against the wall, I sense par­al­lel uni­vers­es whose air, moved by odor­less per­fumes, swells my lungs with fru­gal wisdom.

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