The blades of Morpheus

The spirit emerges from its sleeping water, moved by an already forgotten fear. I light the little lamp on the bedside table; my eyes do not want to accept the light right away; it is not their time, this light is not the day’s light, it is not normal.

I get up, go urinate. It’s a habit. We get up, we go to the bathroom, gestures that, normally, are done by automatic pilot, as if the night were a flight across the Atlantic, as if the floor under the feet were only a horizon guessed by the window.

Detour to the kitchen. The salad for the meal is already far away. I open the refrigerator, another light. A little yogurt will calm the stomach. I’m already falling asleep. There is a night silence around me. The sleep of others darkens the windows. I can’t see anything outside; the moon is spinning elsewhere.

I go back to bed, awake. The fan is stationary, summer is over. I want to take a picture of it, grab the tablet, touch the screen on the "Photo" icon, frame, press the icon that serves as a trigger. A small frame indicates autofocus, a small sound imitates the capture mechanisms, the picture appears in miniature in the lower-left corner. I press, look at the picture, then the fan. Both are motionless. Exactly.

I now type all this, the computer, yet another light, on my lap. I’m surrounded by electronics, suddenly think of that word. Ordinator. That’s what orders. It seems to be one of God’s names. You can indeed feel reassured with a computer under your fingers. Things are beautiful on the screen, the keys are pleasant, things are going well, it’s a Mac, after all, it’s the comfort, the immobility of a certainty.

Yet my eyes want to find other deities. I’ve used up what little energy I’ve stored. It is time to dive back, not to think about tomorrow that does not look like a horizon. At least not to a cloudless sky. It will rain a lot on Tuesday. It’s still a long way off. My sentences are chopped. I chew black, grind flour. Time will rise. The fan does not have Morpheus’ blades.