Following a long-long day of not one minute idle… filled with uninhibited and unabridged phantasy life – not even play or game, although sometimes she refers to by these names – a pseudo life as real as the one you stand in while servicing (not curtailing, right!?) hers… two diffuse realities washing far into each other… drawing you in, lifting her out… eating some more fruit and more fatty bacon together to nourish both worlds in going round, slower or faster, but relentlessly… past nightfall, through her warm-to-chilly bath between a stout beeswax candle and the popping of wood fire… after dances, prances, somersault and shrills of life-joy… until finally – she says she’s tired and, requesting a story or two first, her eyelids clo-ose.
Her eyelids might have closed but on the inside they remain active: turning into more than a screen, the interactive stage of yet another virtual reality, most certainly never short of surprise scenes and characters, but always having enough of the familiar to be a fluid continuity of the day dream.
Whatever takes place within, to the outside she shows calm. You hear her quiet, clear and regular breathing between you two. Her heart gait mostly at a steady trot with rare and short gallops here and there in the safe pasture corraled by the horseshoe of your legs. The strong bond that opens such wide horizons for her and that she’s so aware, so sure of even when her consciousness is at rest. She has all the right to count on it, doesn’t she?
That she sleeps in this morning? Let her, she is growing her dream… she is growing her spirit… she is growing in her dream! No alarm has the right to disturb her in this sacred act. She’ll sit up as soon as her ceremony is over, all poised to turn toward some other life celebrations.
No clock is to wreak wakefulness and shatter the dreams of the young if we are to live in a world without sloth.