Imagine a clawfoot bathtub.
When you gaze upon it you see the potential for long, hot baths,
You imagine relaxing into the essential oil-filled water and enjoying the warmth that will caress your body.
Excitedly, you run the tap and jump in.
The water trickles slowly, but you know that it will be full soon enough.
You feel the hot water splashing onto your toes;
you now feel comfortable releasing the tension you've been carrying all day.
You reach out of the tub for your book, but when your gaze returns to the tap, a blackish, oily substance has begun to leak out.
No matter,
there is more than enough hot water to keep you happy.
You open your book and begin to read;
you are content.
However, at the end of the page, you glance back at the tap to find that the stream of oil is continuing to dribble out.
It is floating on the surface of the water and has created a small circle over your feet.
You ignore the oil, wishing only to focus on enjoying your bath; surely it will pass.
So you return to your book.
Five pages later, you notice that the temperature of the water has dropped.
You look up,
the oil has now progressed further up the tub.
You can no longer see your legs, but you know that the oil is only on the surface and that your legs continue to bathe in the soapy water underneath.
Your bath may be colder,
but you are tough;
you can handle a little oil.
Ten pages later and the oil is up to your neck.
At this point you can smell its petrid scent.
You hold your nose and plunge your head under the water.
There may be some oil above, but you are grateful for the water beneath.
It's tepid, but surely it's better than not having a bath at all.
Eventually your breath begins to run out and you realise you can't stay immersed forever.
Surely the tap has stopped leaking oil by now.
You rise,
raising your head up through the thick layer of oil on the top of the water;
the oil has completely covered the surface of your bathtub
You take a breath, but accidentally suck in some of the black liquid dripping down your face.
As you cough, you realise the tap has stopped leaking.
Half of your tub is full of the oily substance,
while the other half is your cherished bath water.
As the oil drips down your neck, you ponder whether you can still enjoy your bath.
Is it still a bath?
And how much of the soapy water needs to be there for you to remain in the tub.
YOU ARE READING
Introspection: Poems by a Ruminator
PoetryWhen hardship is experienced, it is only human of us to think on the past. Sometimes though, we end up in a cycle of rumination, reliving events that cannot be changed; we become depressed in our memories. Writing can be therapeutic, so here is a co...
