Only when it is cold and the lack of heat has made a bed on your skin you can safely experience the burning sensation of the hot water.
If dying by heat was as welcoming and soothing as dying by cold, I know I'd die by it. Only the heat can cure what runs underneath my skin.
In that mystical moment of dancing with the pain, the white bathroom floor was overtaken by the blue, all the hair and fat accumulated clogged the drain and the same water that danced, carving it's way on my body was trapped with me in that box.
Stained by the dye and mixed with the shampoo, the floor became sky and clouds, and the blue was a window, a path between confinement and freedom.
My feet touched and disappeared into the sky as the top of the churches did to heaven. As if in a chemically induced trance my mind ran free and I wondered: how many before me had human moments like this, and called it divine? Was I experiencing what inspired the surrealists? Was I just tired?
Only the mad or the child can truly experience freedom, however unaware of the experience. How dramatic are the men and women who have the need to chanel those human moments in art or poetry..
Thanks god I am too creative to ignore it, too unorthodox to call it divine and too humble to call it inspirational. Now it's just a glimpse in my memory that will likely die with me. Even though it is living prof of the human spit.
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