It's four thirty in the morning, I definitively am coming out of my drowsiness, hearing the blackbirds singing out in the dark, strangely realizing only now the meaning of the locution "in the dead of night" in that Beatles song.
I've been stepping in and out of my dreams for a while tonight.
S. is softly snoring at my right. I know that just as I will make a move to get out of bed she will come half out of her sleep, and her hands will reach for me. So I remain still.
Her mother's cat is curled up between our legs. The blackbirds are singing about in the area they consider theirs. They have quadrichromatic vision, seeing everything they need to see among the roofs, and courtyards, and the patches of green where they will be looking for food. They know nothing of my stomach though, all knotted up. I don't remember what culture or religion considered the stomach as the seat of all emotions, but I think they were right. All my emotions are there, they actually never move out from my stomach where evidently they feel quite secure.
All these thoughts I have been having tonight, how inconsistent my life turned out to be, how vain my wishes, my brother whom I secretly envy, my father whom I feel guilty with and yet whom I can't stand, his wife, whom I can't love, all the friends who vanished, from whom I vanished, and my place among their thoughts... I wonder is it a big, considerable sunny spot? Or just the occasional appearing of a name and a memory? All these faces and voices and foreigner thoughts fill my mind, but the stomach is the one who feels it. All warmed up and stiff and closed up and all.
I get out of bed, and Libi reaches for me with a soft moan. I touch her for a second. It's everything O.K. Later I can hear her sleeping, as I silently move around to fix me a tea. The blackbirds go on. There's at least two of them around in the courtyard. Their singing is a marvel, the optimism of certain parts of it, when their song goes up ad halts there, with few notes, no moral ending of sorts.