Edward Hopper
Morning sun

The bed is almost untouched. I didn't sleep in it last night. I didn't feel like it. I would have warmed it, crumpled it with the unpredictable movements of my body searching for much-desired relaxation. My knees would have irregularly plowed the sheet. My breasts squashed and my ungovernable hands clutching the pillow.

I simply didn't sleep last night. I watched the bristles soaked in water and oil unevenly whiten the wall. A damp stain clashes in a clear and calm corner. But it doesn't matter. The heavy metal frames don't withstand the pastel green that gently irrigates them. A few too many strokes declare a war already won on the areas peeled by time. Even the curtain struggles to rise amid the guides weighed down by worn-out mechanical grease. But it doesn't matter.

To be honest, I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to wait for the arrival of the sun. The high morning sun, the gentle one that manages to animate even the crude tanks of the industrial area facing me. I wanted to announce the day with my silence, with my hair neatly gathered. So, without the unconscious nocturnal turbulence ravaging it. I wore the scented nightgown. From a slightly rough cloth of ironed fabric.

I am tired of sleeping. I want to experience the progressive warming of the morning sun. That increasing warmth, imperceptibly gradual, that lets itself get drowned. It plunges straight into contrast with the fresh sheet brushing against my skin. And it wants it. The cloth that wraps me pulls slightly at the groin. But whatever. The day is being born and the sun continues to rise. It weds my face and fills me with life. I look as far as I can and wait. Perhaps I cry. The pillow wants to embrace my fatigue but I decline. I wait and hope for an answer. But I don't want to sleep anymore.

Because today, I too, shine with immensity.