A Sense of Vellichor

Chaos

Sunrays cascade down onto my skin through the classroom’s windows and I’m not too sure what to write. I have no excuse for it. I slept a total of seven hours last night, so why is my brain operating as if I’ve only slept for three? I’m at a loss for words but not because I can’t think of any, it’s like my lungs have been filled with flowers and fire and smoke and my eyes are heavy and my bones ache and our eyes lock and I’m now too distracted by an enchanting presence and my head’s buzzing and my breath escapes me and my face flushes and and and… punctuation escapes me…

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Silence

Stillness is my refuge. Peace, quiet, calmness, and the wind’s breeze hissing through the ajar window are all I need to feel a moment of peace. I’m not quite sure why that is, why I’m so deeply fascinated by the stillness of the night and the moments where words go unsaid and actions are left undone; I find a strange comfort in the nothingness. Perhaps it’s something about the way my senses come to life, and I am finally in tune with myself and my body. I am free. In the stillness, I am free. The silence sinks into my mind and ravages my bones, engulfing me whole and creating an inexplicable sense of peace within the confines of my dimly lit bedroom. Stillness is my refuge… or is it nothingness? The void. Not having expectations placed upon me or those around me, the weight of my emotions being lifted off my heaving chest and my mind fading into static. The world goes quiet, and I am left with nothing but my thoughts. Nothingness is my refuge.

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Frigid

I went to the Louvre earlier this month, and I was overwhelmed with sensations.

My friends and I had just stepped out onto the outdoor section of the museum, and instantly all thoughts hardened in my brain. The air grazed my skin like a cold metal blade, and my vibrantly colored cardigan did nothing to combat the cold that sunk into my bones. ‘Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold,’ My mind vibrated with the word, threatening to leave my mouth as my friends beckoned me to follow them. I attempted to shadow their path, silently wondering how they were so unaffected by the menacing drop in temperature that seemed insistent on piercing my chest and ventilating my lungs. Ironically, I couldn’t seem to utter the words to explain myself because of how chilly it was. My lips clamped shut in an effort to preserve my internal body heat as I waddled around the remaining artifacts, the words still pricking at my brain, ‘Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold.’

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Harmony

There is something so serene about water, whether it be a pond, lake, ocean, sea, or even a pool. I find myself drawn to bodies of water as effortlessly as a moth drawn to a flame; except the water doesn’t harm me, no, it breathes life into me and fills me with an unexplainable sense of peace and nostalgia. Water is my safe haven, and every time I run my hands through its waves it feels as though I’ve dipped my fingers into heaven and was blessed with the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes. There is something so refreshing about it. The sight of glistening water bringing me respite from the temporary chaos of my brain, and the smell of sea-infused air sinking into my skin like the first sip of sweet iced tea on a hot summer’s day.

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Mellow

I was sat down pondering over my recent life choices on the rouge-coloured chair of our—The English Fellows’—office, my thoughts being cut short as my friend tossed an orange onto my lap, “Can you peel that for me?” I blinked at her question, staring down at the fruit for a moment before my nails dug into the orange skin. The scent of citrus flooded my senses as I peeled the fruit, and I was instantly reminded of how I spent most of my childhood in the kitchen of a little apartment. It was partially because I loved food, and mainly because I love my grandmother. She spent most of her life in the kitchen, so naturally, I was there too. I seized every possible opportunity to be with my role-model. She was my religion, I cherished her, and I still do. The memory of my grandmother is always associated with the smell of freshly baked orange cake. It was her favourite thing to make. Flashes roll into my head like a scene from a movie, ones where I’m helping her out in the kitchen and sneakily dipping my finger into the orange batter for a quick taste— though it wasn’t as subtle as I liked to believe, she noticed time after time and continued to do nothing but chuckle at my innate mischief.