The morning prayer sparkles. The body is dripping to honor the new day. The hand returns the covers, summoned to wait for the revolution of the day to find a use. Rejected, crumpled, they sag, overturned on the bed when the body stands in the splendor of the nascent day. Eternal moment that reproduces as long as life flows into the veins and provides this breath whose absence rhymes with death. The body sets out and marries the dark to slide on the mattress and let the feet touch the floor. Doesn't this soil vacillate? The habit causes the darkness of the room by denying its mystery to it. The hand finds the pants and the sweater that will dress the clumsy body to find the movement when it was used to the immobility of the night. Suddenly, space has defined and precise volumes to which it is better not to compete. The darkness watches not to lose its fortifications and hopes to regain some ground in its fight against day and against visual acuity which is slowly adapting to the lack of light.
The corridor continues. It allows you to move towards the greatest adventure of the day. A few steps, and the corridor ends. The bathroom. A little bit of light. Very little. You have to wake up, but don't wake anyone. This meeting returns every morning around the world, intimate, without any display. The body discovers the dawning day, it leaves the night and its ocean of unconsciousness to bathe in the new source.
Finally, the prayer room. The little light that slides and reveals the triptych icon, a Virgin and Child, surrounded by the archangels Michael and Gabriel. A soft light like a setting Mediterranean sun. The kneeling descent on the prie-dieu reveals the moment of truth. Knees creak and beg for mercy. The muscular force deployed to descend onto the worn cushion placed on the wood of the prie-dieu allows the members to become familiar with this new position. Slouch while maintaining the dignity required by prayer. Let your gaze wander over the composite altar. Gaze at the woody light of the lamp on the cracked icon. See the face of Christ in this 19th century painting and his finger discreetly indicating his merciful heart. Recognizing the Trinity by Andrei Rublev. Think of the genius of Tarkovsky and all the fools-in-Christ. Let your mind wander like in an Antoine Blondin novel. Review this poorly signed contract, the chaos of work and human relations. Trying to ignore those creaky knees begging for comfort. Forget that phone call where each word sounded like a hammer blow. Let yourself be overcome by a few notes of despair about life after that horrible day the day before when all the work of several weeks was reduced to nothing. Regretting this fatigue which never ends and which longs to be swept away by a vacation which does not appear on the horizon... How so many thoughts turn and turn in the human skull which cannot stop tossing and cajoling its ideas, its concepts, this way of the world, the days past, those to come? What a marvel that these senses, all these visual or tactile or sound or taste or smell impressions come back and form the memory, where the spirit resides. What poetry!
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