Morning Reveries

I wake with the body. Thought still lingers in suspension, slightly intoxicated by the fragmented dreams of the night — absurd images, like pieces of abstract painting, with no clear contours. Light slips through the crack in the window, gilding the floor, tinting the furniture with a soft hue.

It’s in this in-between moment that I feel it: something within me wants to take form.

The urge isn’t to speak, nor to write. It’s gesture.

It’s my body asking for space — to exist on the canvas.

A movement held in, yet pulsing, only resolved when it becomes color.

And even if there’s no brush in hand yet, the act of making coffee is already a kind of rehearsal

I notice the body alert. Not as a decorative presence in the world, but as that place where everything begins, where truth settles before it ever becomes word.

The water heats. The coffee grinder hums like a small internal motor.

And I, between one task and another, think about the nuances the stove doesn’t have.

It promises precision with its numbers, but only understands extremes — too hot or too warm.

It’s almost a lie: it simulates gradations, but delivers only binaries.

Maybe that’s why painting saves me.

It doesn’t lie about the transition between tones.

It is made of the in-between — of that which cannot be immediately defined.

The silence of the house still holds.

They sleep.

And I exist fully in this suspended moment.

There’s a strange beauty in the morning’s repeated gestures.

Or maybe not beauty — but density.

An accumulation of something unseen, yet deeply felt.

As if each ordinary action carried its own story — not a grand one, but dense, intimate, full of invisible life.

I think this is where painting begins.

Not always with clear intent.

Sometimes, it’s just about letting the body speak.

Letting it tell, without haste, all that remains lodged inside — like those women who knew the body speaks too.

Not with words, but with lines, colors, gestures.

With layers.

Painting, then, becomes a way of remembering — without needing to narrate.

A way of holding the paradox of living intensely what cannot be explained.

They begin to wake.

The sound of the house shifts.

Bodies now fill the once-empty space.

And the moment dissolves.

But something remains.

Something that gathers in the chest like dormant pigment, waiting for the right gesture.

Later, maybe, the brushes will touch the canvas.

Maybe not.

But I know I was there — whole — even for a brief moment.

And for today, that is enough.