saturday

They are still there, and others too. If the week is a book, friday already flipped onto the other side. And one from them brought in as many news as one can say. None of them as interesting as the ones unheard and want to hear. Some in tension of the many works they have to do while still doing what they began earlier. Feeding to remain upright and asking about others who are not in sight is not unusual. The rest is normal and silent at a distance. That little alarm clock, if the battery is removed it stays silent, and then can be in an endless moment where time is still. Eyes non stop seeing things around while ears busy gathering the many that comes in. Tired feet swelling and yet need to stay a little longer, but for what? Sleep and silence sketch the bottom of the page. Not a time for a moving shadow or a music that plays of the songs they heard over and over again. The dress on the hanger and the water bottle slowly sink to be replaced by another. That rhythm again of a dual beat which keeps them as they imagine to be while slowly the tempo diminish to complete the score on the same sheet. So many taken out from where they were and held together in many other places where they never dreamt to be, like the cotton cover of the pillow, from that little seed and to far away places after so many journeys. Why still here and not where they want to be or around in groups telling so many others about what really happened. White as white and not any other but white. This saturday morning is for white, water and not wool but cotton.