Vin Ordinaire

May 13, 2014 § Leave a comment


Washing her face with cold water paralleled escaping existence if not for a second –then back, but back a little calmer, less stressed, more relieved; because every water drop streaming down her cheek would hold a minute fraction of her stricken suffering, which though seemingly unapparent, made her wish to wash her face until her arms went numb and muscles sore. She considered drowning herself in blocks of ice, that perhaps if she were to do so, her skin would turn paler than a dead man’s body, which soon she would die, but eventually the ice would melt and she’d be resurrected.

She slowly looked up and gaped at the mirror to see the eyes of a depressive’s with wallowing thoughts, one who walks aimlessly in the streets – though one would argue that such people do not walk aimlessly at all, if anything, they are all but that because they can walk alone without a shudder of loneliness, they can sit for hours in a queue without a thought of boredom; they are content with just being alone in need of none but themselves. She envied such people; they were in a state she’d only dream of reaching, a state of contentment, a state in which their existence was like a garden blooming on a sunny day; a day echoing the sound of joyful children’s laughter. The pupils of her eyes were surrounded by a brown layer stemming red netted lines; it presented a tree’s brown trunk which subtended onto the leaves into its veins, resembling the branches that cracked from her pupil to her eyelids. She glanced down to see the tap water streaming, pressed the tap down to stop it and left the washroom. She felt a little lighter now.

She then thought of how similar shutting the tap water was to people who ‘break down’; they are calm and quiet, then break as a red fire extinguisher in the street, only to be shut again and stop. It seemed a mystery to her, always, the way one would feel sluggish or sleepy after bawling or failing to defy a surge of emotion, as though it wasn’t only running or jogging that would cause drowsiness, as though the release of emotions was a physical act, that it made one exhausted. When one ‘lets go’ of their emotions their senses are all stimulated at once thereby causing them to enter a state of disbelief of their intact emotions, misconceiving themselves as insane.

She recalled a friend who lay by her on the pavement, their heads lay on the grass and feet extended to the street, it seemed a rather uncomfortable sitting though it was uncannily comforting. In a sudden his voice quivered as he found difficulty speaking, as if a task than a voluntary action. She looked at him and saw that his nose turned of rose petals and his eyes grey –grey as eyes in Japanese animation when a character is hypnotized or sad. He wouldn’t look to his left knowing that eye-contact would be inevitable, that if she were to look through his grey eyes his mind would relentlessly hand his thoughts to hers, that she would know all of the ‘truth’ he tried so long to hide. He stopped talking, and she replied with nothing, it was a moment of nothingness, a moment of silence but the sound of the wind gushing through as a breeze that is cold enough to make their skin cool but warm enough to keep them from shivering. She remembered that moment and recalled the puffiness below his eyes, his messy hair and the way his hands fumbled with the grass perhaps to distract him or as a side effect from his medication. All of his senses were stimulated, just as she has always assumed one with weary eyes would be; she remembered this and came back to her senses.

The red lines that flecked the whiteness surrounding her pupil faded, and she walked alone on the street, examining the people and feeling thankful for having washed her face—because now she feels a cooling on her skin and a relief to her eyes when the wind blows opposite her direction. She then realized that she was one of those content people because she didn’t mind walking alone, without an aim, and that even those who are content need an off-switch and sometimes the technician isn’t another person but themselves, and sometimes depending on one’s self is what makes a person aware of their being, making them whole, permitting them with their very own identity.

The weather was cool and she observed a passerby after having decided to sit back on a bench and read by a street lamp as her father would claim he did as a youngster: “Back in my day, I would go sit under a street lamp and study all night!” – a saying every parent has once told their sons and daughters, as though the streets would be packed with students fighting for the light rather than Yu-Gi-Oh! game cards. She glanced up at a man walking along the track and questioned his thoughts. Curiosity seemed to be a trait glued to her since she first asked her mother why the sea was blue, despite it being clear in reality ; if one believes it so, it will be so, until faced with an opinion other than their own, and it is then when they decide to take a decision and in sometimes, change their opinion. Just as people, you’d imagine they be someone, when in reality, if you near them and peel off the layers that covered their being as an onion you’d experience a tickling by your eyelids and a flowing of tears until you reach their core, and only then, will you know a larger share of a person – still not their entirety. She did not mind that everyone molded a persona of their own, that only a few were sincere, and even the genuine found their way of using that in their favour. She looked back down after the man passed to continue reading more of E.E. Cummings’s poetry, in hopes to clear her thoughts for space to analyze his;


since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool

while Spring is in the world


my blood approves

and kisses are a better fate

than wisdom

lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry

—the best gesture of my brain is less than

your eyelids’ flutter which says


we are for each other: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life’s not a paragraph


and death i think is no parenthesis



It was then that her cheeks gradated towards the colour of wine as she longed to wash her face again.




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