She hasn’t been in the mood for shower for a few weeks. She used to shower every other day, and it functioned like a clock. She would remember days by when she took the shower. In the morning or at night, that mattered because there’s half a day’s difference, and that’s all it takes for her hairs to start to glue to themselves like the sticky sides of tapes. Weirdly enough for some of the tapes, they stick to nothing but themselves. But anyway, now she only showers when she has to, when the oily scalp underneath her tied up hair itches so badly that she has to constantly shove a finger through all the already dandruff covered roots to reach to the bottom, and scratches off some more bits of flakes. The wiggling finger like a worm digging deeper into the filth to moisten their mucous skin, only the moisturizing process involuntary for the finger. When she pulls her finger out a few strands of her hair will also be partially pulled loose from the tight restriction of a black rubber band, which she normally wears around her right wrist. The finger sized hole releasing scalp heat into the air. Then her fingertip stinks. Even though it’s a somehow satisfying smell to her. Freshly released from the itchiness, with the sensation of scratching still left on her fingertip, she can’t help but put the fingertip underneath her nostrils with the smallest gesture possible, afraid of being found, and take a subtle but deep sniff off of it. She is secretly a bodily-stink addict. She likes the intimate and hormonal impulsion that those smells suggest. Like the swift smell of armpits on a hot summer day’s bus, perhaps a girl nearby is reaching for the handle above her head, with shaved smooth calves and a clean white shirt. From that brief half of a second, that girl’s body and soul, however angelic she seems, is covered in odor glands just as much as a hairy groin… Scent works like a charm, arises through her nostrils and lands directly into her brain. It makes her pupils dilate.
Shower has always been a different thing for her. Weird, might be the word to say here. Not that she doesn’t understand why people want to get clean, even though sometimes she does wonder about it, but that things grow too personal for her whenever she is in a shower. She can only enjoy showering when life is content enough, otherwise the little enclosed cubicle place, once she shuts the curtain, turns her inside out. The walls become non-existent and she finds herself alone, in the middle of nowhere. Her eyes see nothing but the inside of her own mind, then she has to create conversations because there’s nothing else left to do. She is forced to get in contact with herself, and the water sounds like white noises, which only intensifies the concentration.
There’s always a purpose, she feels, standing naked under warm flowing water. She has to contribute something to the ceremonial gesture, standing in silence as though in the process of praying, just so she can complete the purpose. It would be a blessing for her in fact, to be able to think of nothing, which she found to be impossible for the past several weeks of her life. There’s always something, muttering behind her face, enclosed by her skull. She can’t always figure out what they are saying, most of the times they seem to be her language, but when she listens closely, she doesn’t understand a single syllable. She has a fear for the voices. She is afraid of what’s hidden behind that language, that some nasty truth might be revealed once she has cracked the code to it. Yes, she has secretes, and it’s not shameful to be afraid of them, to be afraid of admitting them. But by being in a shower, with the voices turned inside out, with herself crumbles into a tiny little white shell, she can vocalizes the voices in her head with her own language. They become free and she becomes imprisoned. She as a shell has nowhere to go, nowhere to escape. She the tiny white shell has to endure all the undercurrents and flow with the flow. And when she remembered to turn the water off, she the shell unfolds like a bud of a flower with a thousand petals. Everything reverses, she recollects, then she is her again, with incomprehensible voices once again securely locked up inside of her skull, covered with skin and hair. Then she leaves the shower, with mutterings louder than ever, sometimes so loud that she has to mouth the pronunciations and when she realizes that she is doing so, she gave herself a slight headshake and a resigned chuckle.