There are houses that are too big for just one person, and days that stretch on too long. Here I am, sat on the couch with my thoughts drifting off to nowhere, perhaps everywhere. When life’s overflowing with ideas, sometimes none of them take shape and the only remaining thought is the emptiness of abundance, and that where everything is present at once, nothing remains. The indecisiveness is always a surprise. I’m sick of sitting here with nothing but my own restlessness and decide to flee to the place that grants me the illusion of doing something, while it entails as much inertia as the pillows on which I’ve been trying to find a somewhat comfortable position with every passing minute.

The light of the setting sun hits the glass dome of my bathroom and bathes the blue shower tiles in a soft glow. The familiar scent of jasmine makes me close my eyes with a sigh of gratitude. The skylight’s open, and finally a breeze is working to chase off the sticky heat of the day. My dress slides to the floor and I deliberately avoid the mirror. I’ve had enough of myself, don’t feel like being reminded of the imperfections of my own body, the criticism I subject it to and the inevitable conclusion that I’m just a little disgusted with it for no other reason than that this is not the kind of body that makes men want to buy expensive cars.

I step into the shower. My toes trace the seams between the small tiles while my hands rest against the wall. The warm breeze tickling my skin takes shreds of ideas I’ll never properly conceptualise by the hand and lays them to rest, far away from my consciousness. I don’t want to think anymore, but I yearn to feel, so I stand my ground boldly. I gasp for air when the freezing water hits my chest and raises every single hair on my body. Tiny streams make their way like meltwater over my shoulders, down my back. My breath slows to the rhythm of the rising water temperature and I swear there’s something so blissful about the steady relaxation of muscles that spasmed in a moment of accute alertness. I bow my head. The water colours my chocolate hair a deep black and sticks it in long tresses to my neck and cheeks. Thick drops pick up the silent tears sticking to my lashes in search of the curvature of my lips, and if drops of water had a voice, they’d offer each other words of courage before sacrificing themselves to the free fall towards the drain. I raise the temperature until the water draws red hot streaks on my skin and steam slowly crinkles through the open bathroom window.

I don’t dry off. Fascinated, I watch the thin mist rising from my arms, as if my hands are made of fire. I draw pictures with the smoke that surrounds me and dance in a cloud of steaming jasmine. My fingers draw a trail up from my thights, scrape the water off my hips. I burry them in the boundless softness of the belly that disgusts me so much when I look at it, but which my hands can’t but adore. I forget what I see when I look at myself and catch myself in the revelation that my body exists to touch, to be felt. I close my eyes and knead the rolls around my waist. I grab them, their buttery soft, tender flesh. The abscence of the harshness of bone makes me intensely happy. My hands glide up and move along my shoulders to the notch between my collarbones. I stroke my chest and feather my fingertips down to my stomach. Something glows deep inside of it. I try to grab it, reach for it. I want to hold it, but the smoldering coals inside of me stays out of reach. On my knees I search, between my legs, where the climate is quickly becoming as humid as the tile floor of my steamy bathroom. My fingers explore the entrance of a tunnel, walls covered in a slippery velvet consistency making the journey so much easier. I drag it up to the button at the heart of the orchid that gloriously opens itself to my hands. The coals inside me catch fire, devour themselves while I push my hips foreward and travel to unknown heights on my palm, my fingers ever deeper inside myself, looking for the fire by which I want to warm myself. I yelp, as if I’ve burned myself, and sink onto the cold floor. Wet, ecstatic, extinguished. I prefer my body satisfied, not reflected in a mirror.

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