not quite fiction
listening: belaian jiwa
innuendo, letters from wasteland the wallflowers
I'm not so good with telling stories, so I probably won't tell you one.
But if somehow it begins to sound like something that resembles a story, despite its lack of order, climax and satisfying denouement, well, I can't help it. It could almost have been a very interesting story for me, had it not been so real, separated only by the gravity of time.
Although the gravity of memory has a weaker, less predictable constant.
The moments in your life that really stand out in your mind, are not, usually, your most outstanding ones.
But it could be a rather interesting story for you. You, the enviably clean, healthy ones outside the twisted recesses of my diseased mind.
I can't quite put a date when this happened. It crept up like a subtle, cunning cat. Except a simple broom won't chase this one away.
(See? This is not quite a story. I can't even give you an exact starting date, so that you can say 'Hmm. So she's completely lost it by the age of 13,' or something like that.)
My earliest memory of my mind taking a slow slide down this unfortunate detour is me standing and thinking, in a bathroom, holding, or perhaps staring, I can't be sure, at a bar of soap. I remember the exact thought until this very day, if that's at all possible. How does one remember a thought, anyway? I can't quite remember the choice and order of words that I've assigned to articulate this particularly devious seed of reasoning, but I distinctly remember the dilemma I was faced with, concerning this bar of soap. The mothership of all the other dilemmas that will follow pretty soon.
If I only wash my left hand with soap, the right hand might rot out because it is jealous.
It made absolute perfect sense. Obviously, there's nothing wrong with being fair. So I decided not to waste another twenty minutes on this matter and gave both of my hands equal hygiene treatment.
So the decision has been made. After that moment, each time I have to wash my hands (or one of my hands), I'm careful not to let my left or my right hand feel jealous by dutifully pampering one and ignoring the other. If I'm washing my right hand then the left hand, even perfectly unsoiled by germs or dirt or anything I think that's less than clean (this, we'll discover later, becomes too many things), will get its time under the gushing tap, too. And of course, with generous amount of soap.
Soap, the germicide of germs. The slippery, stealthy white bubbles that will never err when it comes dirt destruction. The ruthless, resilient advocate of wholesome cleanliness. My floral-scented secret agents.
I thought that was the last decision I had to make regarding washing. Crisis over.