Cold Showers on Winter Mornings


Eyes half open

Not unlike my soul at that moment.

Half of which is standing at the bathroom door and the other half clinging staunchly still at the sheets

Not wanting to do it as much as acknowledging that it needs to be done

And it is the step onto the cold, stinging tiles that renders turning back a no-longer.

I knew full well that the choice between right and easy would inevitably come one day,

but that did not make reaching out for the tap any easier,


As the cold air began to creep through the gaps and envelop my entire being,

eagerly waiting to embrace its liquid counterpart,

knowing full well that it would despite how much I didn’t want it to,

because I had no choice.


For the world does not take lightly to body odour,

in particular those emanating from unwashed bodies.


Perhaps if I knew such an ordeal had to be repeated at this time of the morn each day,

I would have chosen to stay in the womb.

Where it was warm and so was the water,

and I was clean without having to make myself so.

Such is the bliss of the unborn who are safe from the calls of the showerheads.


And with that thought comes the impulse,

the turning of the hand.


For it dawned upon me,

that it was nobody’s fault but mine that I chose this path, when I had the chance to stay and be warm as before.

And thus comes the subsequent sound.

The rustling of non-solid ice through the ice cold pipes hugged by ice cold air in an ice cold world.

I knew it was mere moments before the fall.

And before I had a chance to take a step back, it had happened.

Bursting out of the holes above me like a platoon of angry blizzards,

screaming through the air,


their cold, evil touch numbing my head,

followed by my face,

then everything else.


And I could do nothing more than stand,

and scrub,

or force myself to

despite my muscles finding it hard to move.

Holding in the screams that were scratching at my throat,

begging to come out.

As if it would ease the pain

or render the world warmer.


And thus I shoved them back to the bottom of my stomach,

where screams belong,

perhaps hoping that they would be of some defense against the ravenous, devouring cold,

that was working it’s way outside in to my very core.

It wasn’t of course.


And  I could only hope that the event of me not smelling bad would come before my potential freezing to death,

Hoping and fighting,

Punching the air,

clenching the jaw,

gritting the teeth,

whatever would put off the monster of the cold from devouring me completely even for a fraction.


And it was just enough.


For before I knew it, it was over.


The cold now nothing more than a weak lingering in the air,

The soles of my feet now only complementing the tiles,

the tap now in its original clockwise state.


It was over.


It was all over.


Everything was new.


Everything was breathable.


Everything was warm.


And I smelt absolutely amazing.




this is what if feels like,


to be born again?”









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