Recycled Air

The Bathing
January 9, 2005

With unsurity marking the vast number of thoughts breeching my mind, I locked the door and began to fill the sink. The warm waters flowing as an effervescent cord of comfort gave no reassurance. I felt dirty; and I did not quite know what I would soon do in the in pleasant waters of the sink below.
I took my glasses, a reminder that I was plagued with imperfection and the sadness of my eyes behind them, and laid them down out of water’s reach; and then I unfolded my hair from the top of my head, allowing the dirt-ridden locks to fall to my shoulders. I held a strand in my hand, feeling the slick texture and felt as if I had sunk deeper into the dirt. Slowly, lowering my head as I did the strand in my fingers, I submerged the limp tress into the clear, warm water.
It floated liberally, creating wavy lines of underwater elegance. I dunked my hands, cupped to imprison the easily escapable liquid between my fingers, and raised it to my hairline, letting it drench the glossy roots. The tap still ran, and I began to pull the water straight from the faucet, pressing it to my head in determination. If I could wash the roots of the problem, I would be clean.
As the sink became unbearingly full I shut the tap off and submerged the top of my head into the small pool. I was mesmerized by the flow and wave of each wisp. The light caught the hidden red strands as they fluttered and caught tiny bubbles to their tails. How abundant the color seemed so close, captured in the reflections of light on the water’s surface: luscious auburn in the imaginary current. And I imagined it was realistic, and that it was natural; but I knew how easily the touches of tiny beauty could be covered in the dirt of a day. And, oh, how I longed that I should let it flow so free with the buoyancy water gives. But I felt sickened by the reality of unsurity in my mind and extracted the weary locks from their mermaid adventure.
All color and elegance was lost in the wetness, separated from its watery domain.

Looking back, after spending the evening engrossed in conversation with someone who, surprisingly, gets me, I realize that everything I have ever said, everything I have ever thought, and everything I have ever written is all coming together at once. It seems that all these previous endeavors—projects undertaken with the false hope of completion—and, to a degree, all prior cognizance, are culminating in this one moment to become something greater than the individual pieces; something greater than myself. It seems to me that I have been writing, dreaming, scheming, creating this all in my head from the moment I was born. And now, since reaching a point of maturity that allows me the concentration and determination to complete all previous projects, all those little narratives, all those little moments of personal literary genius are coming to form the story of my life. Little bits and pieces, I’ve found, since thinking them, or putting them on paper, have stuck inevitably with me (in my heart, almost), all to be put to work again in a collaboration of sorts.
My example is the piece I have pasted above: “The Bathing”. I found it was refreshing for me to dunk my head in a sink of cool water, and intriguing to watch the hair float so elegantly, like it never would out-of-water. I still find this to be true today. When thinking of how to deal with current situations, and when imagining how to relieve future frustrations, I often imagine myself, head submerged in the sink. I do not know if I have always considered this a release, or if it came about around the time I wrote this piece, but, ever since that day—the ninth of January—I have remembered it is a very soothing way to cleanse oneself, and should be appropriately preformed in the future. Especially when feeling abnormally dirty.
And today, while looking back at how I have spent the last few years in almost out-of-body narrative, I realize that, as I come around to finally writing my story, all of these little literary moments will make it into my ultimate prose. Maybe it is true I have been writing this all along, or maybe I am just now realizing how clearly I remember those feelings. Thus, I am relating one instance with another, and stringing my life together as more than just a series of moments interesting enough to be written down.

©Rachel C

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