Sleeping with Amsterdam

From my bed, I can see the window that takes up the entire wall. The curtains are double-layered, gray and heavy, with a firm authority to block out the sun’s rays. But now it’s nighttime, and all that’s visible are the lights of the buildings and the lights poles, and of course, the opulent city of Amsterdam, which feels as if it’s right next to the bed—or better yet, as if it’s inside the room.

It looks so vibrant, so alive, and so immense that it’s easy to inhale its energy. I am sleeping with Amsterdam. The buildings appear to move like a single wave, there are so many lights, so many people with so much bustle, it smells like an old city pulsing with life, dazzling like a young admiral atop its canals. The water is joyous, like a wandering mirror illuminated by the lights seen all around.

The water is full of boats dancing with the current; big boats, small boats, gigantic ones, or tiny ones like shoeboxes—all of them part of the city. I am sleeping with Amsterdam, and I still can’t believe it, can’t grasp it, and I can’t hear the noise. The glass of the window is as thick as the containers transported through the canal.

Sleeping with Amsterdam feels lovely, cozy, and at the same time impossible. My arms aren’t wide enough to embrace her, but I thank this city for giving me so much energy—that luminous, dazzling beauty I need at this moment. I wish I weren’t just sleeping one night with Amsterdam; therefore, I will take a picture of the city—first with my pupils, and then with my soul.

Good night, Amsterdam.