There is something about the warm hands of a bath that differentiates itself
from the warmth of a human's hands.
You see, a human's hands are frighteningly inviting; like the hardy handshake of a somewhat skeptical introduction to a stranger.
But once you've shaken hands, you aren't strangers anymore- you're past that.
Because once you've shaken hands with a stranger, you've made a deal with the devil;
and you've sold your soul in exchange for another familiar face, in your atlas of persons, that will turn from a friendly smile to a disapproving scowl in a matter of seconds.
But a bath, a warm bath, is not synthetic like the many faces of humans.
The hands of a bath don't feel like cold plastic to the touch; a bath is always warm.
No matter which direction you turn the faucet,
a bath is always comforting because you draw it yourself.
The bath made of water that doesn't belong to you, but you have caused this water to flow into a wellspring of serenity for your own dwelling.
I'm afraid I take too many baths.
I'm afraid that I've mistaken the bliss of a warm bath after a long day for an escape from myself.
Not a day goes by that I don't blame myself for everything that has happened in the world.
I blame myself for my family problems, I blame myself for my friends' problems, I blame myself for the economy's problems, and I blame myself for my own depressed state that I have been stuck in, like a horse in quicksand, for as long as I can remember.
I can't remember what it feels like to breathe.
I can't remember what if feels like to move without sinking deeper and deeper down into the pitfall of quicksand that is my bedroom floor.
Once I took four baths in one day.
I was incredibly lonely that day,
and to be quite frank, I still am;
however I've gotten used to the bitter cold of isolation since then.
My days slip past me like a sealed love letter, fluttering through the wind,
that I write to myself every night when I can't seem to sleep.
I know very well that the letters don't satisfy me because I am so disgustingly greedy for someone other than myself to love me;
but I continue to write.
I continue to write these love letters to myself in hopes that one day myself loves me back.
Some days are easier to reside in than others,
but every day is difficult, nonetheless.
I understand that there will be challenges,
bumps in the road here and there;
but I'm afraid that you don't understand.
I am a 1970 Chevrolet with a flat tire who can't seem to get her suspension straight.
So I draw a bath.
I draw a bath; and I strip myself of all my troubles, and I sit in said bath and cry.
Because only in a bath does no one else know you are crying.
Only in a bath can my tears mix with the water of my own oasis and disappear.
Only then am I aware of the fact that I am bathing in my own tears,
but at least it is warm here.
And only here do I not feel so lonely.
Please try to understand this.
It is hard for me.
It is hard for me to look in the mirror every morning and notice the fine lines,
tracing their way across my face until they crack. They crack like the tinted glass of cheap alcohol bottles until the pieces begin to chip from my skin and fall to the ground,
but I don't have enough hands to catch them before they shatter.
Maybe if I had more hands I could catch them all; and maybe then myself would love me back.
There is something about the warm hands of a bath that differentiates itself from the warmth of a human's hands.
