25 January 2014


The right hand threw the empty cup, a cup where he enjoyed summer’s refreshment a while ago. But the cup did not rolled far from him the reason why he kicked it like a soccer ball. The empty cup reached to the cigarette vendor. At first, the man in his middle age ignored it but after he entertained a customer he picked it up. His left hand turned it around. He inspected it like a scientist that had discovered a new specimen.

Three steps before the cigarette vendor. Five steps before I am out in the flyover, before I take my ride. He stopped turning the cup. I stopped walking. His eyes focused on the lines that are printed all over the cup. There were straight blue lines from the lid to the base and red curvy lines all over the blue lines. He turned the cup once more, patted the base and kept it at his side.

Then, flashes of my art class hits me: The sketch pad that I struggle on accomplishing; the lines that I used to draw on it; the curvy lines even I used a ruler. They all come to my senses. It was art. It was art he was curious at. It was art he discovered. Yet, someone’s right hand just threw it away.

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1 comment

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Maira Gall