PICS
TC B 103 Room E
Nothing here is mine. Just the lilac dress on the floor. I pull back the curtain. I turn the handle. Cold water spurts from the shower head on the wall. I turn the handle again. Warmer, warm enough. I step into the weak stream of water. I squint as it runs over the back of my head. I feel it start to rush over my forehead and drip off of my chin. I run my hands through my hair.The oil feels smooth between my fingers. I reach for a bottle. It isn't mine. It smells different. I run its contents through my clumped locks. Rinse. I reach for another bottle and open it. It smells different. Like a man. I laugh. "It smells like a man." Smell my wet skin, I'll smell like a man. Rinse. I smell like a man. I step away from the steady stream and put my face against my shoulder, take in a deep breath. A comfort to inhale such a strong scent. This scent carries so many memories. After a moment of holding my eyes shut tight and trying to pull every memory of this smell together, I take one last deep sigh before I open them again, leaving the memories to the mercy of my temporal lobe. Will they be forgotten? I leave it up to fate and step back into the water.
There is nothing left for me to do. I should turn it off and search for a clean towel. I can't bring my hands to complete these actions. With my arms pulled hard against my chest and my hands wiping water from my face, my body refuses to leave the succor of the shower. The day, the days, the months, the year, wash down the drain with the oils and suds. Unable to get out, yet feeling weary from the day's travels, I find myself dropping to the floor, sitting with my forehead on my knees, arms wrapped around my shins. My fingers run across scars. Swollen from the hot water, more noticeable. The tips of my fingers push against the soft tissue. I laugh. Such a lack of grace in my movements have left me with these keepsakes. Momentary pain leads to a lifetime of remembrance.
How much time has passed? No way to tell. No clock ticking to remind me that seconds are flying by. Complete detachment. Time is passing, but I am unaware. Unlike those beyond the curtain, I am immune through ignorance. They pass the time in 30 minutes intervals of TV shows or countdowns 'til the next moment in their lives. Behind the curtain, underwater, I am not victim of this decay of time.
------- A big thanks to the guys in B 103 for letting me use your shower. While incredibly dirty and slighty moldy, it was always a sanctuary for the weary with waters of rebirth. Je t'aime tous.
Nothing here is mine. Just the lilac dress on the floor. I pull back the curtain. I turn the handle. Cold water spurts from the shower head on the wall. I turn the handle again. Warmer, warm enough. I step into the weak stream of water. I squint as it runs over the back of my head. I feel it start to rush over my forehead and drip off of my chin. I run my hands through my hair.The oil feels smooth between my fingers. I reach for a bottle. It isn't mine. It smells different. I run its contents through my clumped locks. Rinse. I reach for another bottle and open it. It smells different. Like a man. I laugh. "It smells like a man." Smell my wet skin, I'll smell like a man. Rinse. I smell like a man. I step away from the steady stream and put my face against my shoulder, take in a deep breath. A comfort to inhale such a strong scent. This scent carries so many memories. After a moment of holding my eyes shut tight and trying to pull every memory of this smell together, I take one last deep sigh before I open them again, leaving the memories to the mercy of my temporal lobe. Will they be forgotten? I leave it up to fate and step back into the water.
There is nothing left for me to do. I should turn it off and search for a clean towel. I can't bring my hands to complete these actions. With my arms pulled hard against my chest and my hands wiping water from my face, my body refuses to leave the succor of the shower. The day, the days, the months, the year, wash down the drain with the oils and suds. Unable to get out, yet feeling weary from the day's travels, I find myself dropping to the floor, sitting with my forehead on my knees, arms wrapped around my shins. My fingers run across scars. Swollen from the hot water, more noticeable. The tips of my fingers push against the soft tissue. I laugh. Such a lack of grace in my movements have left me with these keepsakes. Momentary pain leads to a lifetime of remembrance.
How much time has passed? No way to tell. No clock ticking to remind me that seconds are flying by. Complete detachment. Time is passing, but I am unaware. Unlike those beyond the curtain, I am immune through ignorance. They pass the time in 30 minutes intervals of TV shows or countdowns 'til the next moment in their lives. Behind the curtain, underwater, I am not victim of this decay of time.
------- A big thanks to the guys in B 103 for letting me use your shower. While incredibly dirty and slighty moldy, it was always a sanctuary for the weary with waters of rebirth. Je t'aime tous.
