i learned the process of making wine one needs to be prudent enough -
you start with harvesting first, judicious to pick up the grapes sweet, flavoured and acidic just like you are picked - beautiful, selfish, brave you sort them, and sometimes bad ones just hang around
then comes the crushing to let the juice get additional tannins, flavour and color to let out all the good and bad like heartbreaks and incomparable loyalty like scars and the tinted band-aids
now, allow it to ferment by adding wild yeast until sugar turns into alcohol moonshine, firewater, they call it like a spark igniting a fortunate volcano the chaos reverberating as chosen silence
we're almost there it's time for clarification - clean removal of tannins, proteins and dead yeast clean removal of toxicity, destruction, hatred take your sore time as you do it
and now, all we have to do is aging and bottling - aging in oak barrels, stainless steel tanks or bottles that makes the wine reach its optimal flavour the flavour of experiences, stories, mysteries grave dilemmas and raw indecisiveness
and when you're done you bottle it up through years making it better turning underlying water into an elixir turning your mess into an abstract art
you bottle it all up and know as it gets older, it becomes better as you get older, you become finer
A face that has countless scattered lines of anxiety,
scattered --- as if they were playfully drawn by a kid.
Those almond shaped eyes are an ocean. An ocean
that has learnt to gulp everything in one go. Yes, sadness has a face.
A face that hides in plain sight.
It's the face :
of that old woman you met on the metro station
--- the lady who carried loose folds of skin and
bulging eyes like they were heavy bags, tiresome
to carry. But she somehow managed to zip them
to keep the contents safe (and hidden)
of that teenager who walks with drooped
shoulders --- the one who reminded you of wilted
hyacinths. His heart is a desert where dreams
once bloomed. Now, he carries the remnants of his broken dreams
and insomnia on his fragile shoulders.
of that lean man, who is a warrior in disguise. The
one whose wrinkled fingers are swords that murder
sorrows, his eyes are flame throwers and his
silence --- his ultimate weapon. All for the sake of his family.
Yes, sadness has a face. A face that has been taught to camouflage. A face that hides in plain sight.
it has parts,
of you and
all of us.