Vincent...by...Edgar Whitman Wilde
There is a sense
in me that I seem to know myself best here in my bedroom in the fairground proportions
of my full length mirror. My features are still scrutinised by the o’clock and I
try but fail to make sure no vestige of my inner life is portrayed in the way I
present myself before it, lest it betray me to them. They haven’t said anything
to me so far, but the o’clock in its relentless observation knows me.
Here in my bedroom in the company of the little lace dress with its Vulcan white hem strange ineluctable rhythms gradually and patiently enter my thoughts, like a measured orchestral cadence of soft melody subtly wisping around my whole being. They scamper in my blood become inseparable and live in me, flocks of hallucinated concepts. I ask the o’clock what is responsible for this, for my ever changing moods, the catatonic calm, the delirious frenzy of my ungovernable mania, the o’clock gazes at me undisturbed. My pleas, my questions, are ignored. It refuses stubbornly to react, it keeps on watching.
I live in the palace of my schoolboy bedroom. In its wondrous chaos, its disturbed turbulence, its manic colours. The Darwinism of its shapes. Sometimes I open my window and usher in other living things to realise my unsolicited joy. I am in my schoolboy bedroom but I am not alone. The little lace dress, how well it looks, moving slightly as I trace my fingers along its brilliant white hem. I experience a feeling of high elation and complicity in my adopted position and intoxicated by the prospect of my duality.
The o’clock glares at my thoughts trying to find appeasement, I give none. I stand and look in the mirror, see myself wearing the little lace dress, though it still sits on its chair. In the mirror I am led from my bedroom to another place I do not recognise by four young men dressed in white coats where I am initiated into the spiritual meaning of the plurality of male and female, man and woman, girl and boy of sexuality and its understanding. I think to myself abstractedly during the process, that those who speak of my complexion and such will be caught unawares by the plan of the enormity of my arrival and wonder that I am. In awe of my intricacy constructed of this new uncontainable irrepressible inner light. Then when I tell them who I am not, I will realise who I am. The o’clock ticks, ticks, ticks in rebuke, admonishing me for living out what it claims are fictions. Such as it says never return to their source, the lie on the page. I dismiss these sentiments from the o’clock as nothing more than the dying embers of burnt monoliths, as blunderous attempts to unbalance me with the probabilities of failed perceptions that are not my preoccupation.