Warm Water

Posted: September 10, 2009 in Paper Cuts

Warm Water
April 11, 2009

His hands were submerged under water but his upper torso wasn’t. Hot water flowed from the rusty faucet. Its burbling sound for a moment muffled the sounds within his head.

His thoughts slowed down but no sooner he closed the faucet they picked up in pace. Like a gust of strong wind they turned the dead leafs that were just lying there. It was time to collect them, and arrange them, before finally throwing them in the burner.

As he leaned back, the hot water enveloped his chest, leaving his head and knees above it. He was feeling warm but the sounds still did not stop; not for a minute. Unlike humans thoughts do not go out to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee: Life would have been too easy.

Looking down at his hands that yearned to type words the young man sighed. He reached out to a bar of soap. He carefully soaped his hands and submerged them in the hot water. For a few seconds a hand made out of froth appeared on the rippling surface before disappearing. Even though it retained its delicious warmth the water little by little the water assumed a murky icy look.

The moment he closed his eyes he remembered. It was faint but he of all people remembered. It was a warm place; dark but warm. As he lowered the back of his head into the water, the faint light that encircled the inner lines of his weary eyelids, reminded him of another that he probably have seen a long time ago but like everyone one else forgot.

It was a place that no one on the face of this earth remembered. No one can remember it. It is a place where all secrets are bourn but not delivered; not verbally that is.

We cannot remember its safety yet we can feel the love that followed our departure from it. Maybe it is because of the warm embraces that caressed our wrinkled skins to soften it or the meaningless yet gentle sounds that found its way into our ears. In time these sounds will turn into words, the words into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, the paragraphs into texts; that are bound into books that will be discarded when they are of no use to anyone but to who owned them, and are no longer with us.

Alas no one is allowed to live there, more than nine months. There where the warm water surrounds everything. The unfortunate ones leave it early. No one knows why they do so but the Silent One.

The young man was starting to feel cold. He opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling. “Why did I of all people remember?” he thought to himself.

Few minutes passed before he reached out to a small bucket and started pouring hot water on his head, his chest and the parts that weren’t totally submerged. This was the closest he will ever get to a rebirth. The rest is part of a story that will in a few years unfold.

He noticed how droplets of cold water appeared on the porcelain wall. It was becoming cold again. He poured another bucket over his head and as he did when he was little he instinctively closed his eyes. A sigh of relief and content followed but it was time.

He remembered fragments that he once wrote.

“Do we ever open our eyes to gaze at the darkness while we are submerged in the warm waters of life?” he muttered before pulling the stopper, and walking out of the bathroom followed by a misty trail that soon disappeared within the corners of the small and narrow corridor.

An hour later when it was no longer warm he looked through his folder and re-wrote them. This is what he wrote:

Delivered by a mother to life we are forever bound,
Condemned to a short existence weighed down by toil and hardship.

From within a warm womb we rise before sinking in the cold ground,
As from within the flesh and bone frames our spirits silently slip.

We are trapped by earthly boundaries that neither you nor I can escape, but do try if you can,
May it all amount to anything beyond the life that our poor corporeal souls have to undertake but never to our misfortune truly take.

The faucet is still dripping as his mind with thoughts is rushing. In a few days time he will again experience the rebirth, and the very same thoughts will again haunt him. Maybe he should start taking cold showers and forget everything!

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Comments
  1. beautiful as usual Mike..this is the true artist & the questioning mind 🙂

    • mikevderderian says:

      Thank you so much Dear Lama :-}) This mind has been troubling me since my early years. We all are on an existential journey. I am finding my existence through lines and words.

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