her hidden smile

my life as i live it

There is a silence in my eyes. I gaze with cold wonder at the world around me. Usually I smile. Not lately. Too many questions darting around my mind while a quiet discontent sleeplessly turns side to side at the bottom of my being. As my routine sets in, a pleasant attention to the little things becomes noticeable. The perfectly straight line drawn by a glistening drop of water as it wanders downward beneath the towel rack. The different cloud constellations in the same sky, above the same lake, seen from the same tram, every early morning. The transparent reflection of my ageing face in the train window. The glitter on a single fingernail in a choir of painted nails on the little hand of the corner store cashier. I suppose I no longer feel the burning sensation of displacement in my home town. Seven years after having left it turned into a soft srangeness, like knowing you’re in the wrong relationship but finding no rhymre or reason as to what it is exactly that makes you feel this way. The crackle of my cigarette echoes in my ears. I miss the burning in the buring in the back of my throat when I smoke those reds. But with every passing day the excuses evaporate. You’re 25 now. You wheeze on the treadmill. Do you really need it just to get through the day?

Probably not.

But I want it. This perfect unsatisfying pleasure. When you live your life in self-restraing, even the smallest act of rebellion feels like a victory.

That’s all a memory. I open my eyes. Quietly gazing at the vapor rising into the dark of night. I marvel at the silence. In some ways this pool epitomizes luxury to me. Exposed to the elements, it defiantly exhudes warmth, illuminating its immediate environment with its crystal blue. Captivated by the vapor. Every movement I make is slow, every muscle I tense is silent. My ears are submerged and only my eyes and my nose are above water. I lie there, contemplating the quiet. The silence of my thoughts. The peace of of deccellaration allows itself entry into my mind. There is neither audial nor visual stimulation. I think back to vietnam. The perpetual chaos that found its own order. The streams of traffic running into each other, never clashing.

I love the look of her skin when my eyes are too close to focus on the whole picture. And the sound of pen on paper writing. And the sight of coffee running down a spoon.

Bloodhounds itching for a taste of fresh prey. Frenzied eyes spanning open as their pupils dilate and focus on the flesh. Simple sight driven creatures. I snap my fingers in his face. The territorial ape inside is flexing his muscles and flashing his teeth. Macau city.

Tropical Vietnam. Hanoi city on a corner cafe balcony with dark wood. Beep beep beep beep. The repetitive horns of the scooters as a few ants scrounge for the weet sauce droplets of my meal. I take a sip of my vietnamese coffee. This wood like brew that tastes so unlike any coffee i’ve ever tasted. The scent of burning sandalwood in my nose. I watch scattered tourists carefully cross the road as the herds of scooters casually avoid them by a hair’s breadth.

Click click. The light turns orange then red. The stream of traffic continues to flow like water changing directions. Different streams running into each other. I put my pen down and read these words back to myself: “different streams running into each other…