The Bathroom.
In my experience being in a relationship with someone is like starting out with a fresh bathroom somebody else has furnished.
First you try to explore; see what all the fuzz is about, try those weird tubes of WTF in the cabinet; and even asks for permission to sit on the toilet.
Then as time progresses the bathroom starts to smell; the tiles get dirty and what once was beautiful and shiny is now turning dull and grey.
Suddenly you don't care about the poop that missed the target, or the putrid smell of acid vomit on the mirror; a reflection of what you never thought you would be.
Over time the new stains grows on top of the old shit; which has become the new floor and walls - so engraved in the daily markings of the bathroom that you can't even fathom that it
used to be something differently; it just is what it is; you adapt.
The bathroom is now filled with all sorts of rips and cracks to the point of never being able to fully heal; everywhere there are cracks, bruises and actual holes where once fine marble existed.
The air is getting denser and denser to the point of suffocating; still you refuse to take caution and put on a safety mask; after all it's just a bathroom - right?
You fight and claw through the ever-shifting darkness of light blinding your eyes from seeing anything, but whatever is right inside your tunnel-vision.
Each day a battle to survive - making it harder and harder to stay - still you stay and when you do run you never run far; the allure of just finding the right vent, the correct temperature; the missing link
always bringing you back to the point of origin.
I mean, it still is just a bathroom; why should it be so hard? It must be something you are doing wrong; right? Just one tile moved out of place by accident, if - if only you could find it, it's so simple; right? Just a little push in the right direction and then eeeeverything will be fine!
Time passes, time freezes, the circle of knowledge evolves from nothing into more nothingness.
Your olfactory system starts to heightened it sense; searching, analyzing, nostrils vibrating; catching that funny smell, just like what comes right before a storm is to arrive; the tension of electrons buzzing, the sound of nervous birds chattering; trees bracing for impact, the very sky inside the room wobbling.
BRAAWWWWWKKKKKKKK! STRIKE ONE hits you right in the gut! BRAAAAAAAAWK! STRIKE TWO barely misses your head - you fall down and get up to look the very demon that was the floor rise up beneath the ashes of condensed shit as the illusion of reality starts to bend; to crack - as if it is ready to burst at any moment; you grip yourself has hard as you can; sheltering yourself for what you now know is to come; the dreaded moment; the one you've known always comes at the conclusion of war - and with it the shrieking sound of silence in the eye of the storm.
Then, THEN strikes the earth-shattering lightning one final time; as if the very rupture of time and space is ripping the actual foundation the room is built upon inside-out.
And all you are left with is broken pieces of ancient shit coming up to the surface in an endless stream of moments of revelation.
Layer by layer; tile by tile; crack by crack; the burning venom of hindsight sizzles through your veins.
Like pulsing magmatic needles it punctures the very foundation of your inner self.
Thought by thought, feeling by feeling is ripped apart as you see the shadow of what once was pure standing in front of you.
Blood dripping along it's spine, lumps of dark clotted blood falling from it's mouth; venom pulsing through its eyes.
No carpet to cover it's actual representation this time; a one-time only performance in all honesty, as the very core of it's being stand before you for the first time; axe in hand.
Then you look in the mirror and see your own faltered skin, blistered face and cracked bones.
Suddenly at that moment; when the agony over your own failing are at its highest; you grip your head in disbelief as the last illusion of the evil that stands before you falls down.
Now only the shell of a squirming small creature remains - trying desperately to blind you with their spell so you again will fall into their trap and not see and acknowledge the awful truth.
That people are afraid, so very afraid, so goddamn incredibly afraid of being wrong that they would rather live in their own excrement's and pretend it's not there; than take responsibility for it.
Even if that means drowning everyone around themselves in it and wiping themselves off on the nearest bystander; never surrendering to the actual fact that they themselves created it in the first place.
See the bathroom for what it is; a place where even the most fragile of things are shared with others, a place for both rest, salvation and contemplation; for being alone and together.
What you leave behind is for others to step on and take the blame for by the next person in line; even though it was not their fault.
By taking responsibility right away no one gets judged for something they did not create.
So always remember this:
One shit is easy to clean when it's fresh.
An empire of old dirt on the other hand - might just prove uncleansable.
Do you dare risk it?
First you try to explore; see what all the fuzz is about, try those weird tubes of WTF in the cabinet; and even asks for permission to sit on the toilet.
Then as time progresses the bathroom starts to smell; the tiles get dirty and what once was beautiful and shiny is now turning dull and grey.
Suddenly you don't care about the poop that missed the target, or the putrid smell of acid vomit on the mirror; a reflection of what you never thought you would be.
Over time the new stains grows on top of the old shit; which has become the new floor and walls - so engraved in the daily markings of the bathroom that you can't even fathom that it
used to be something differently; it just is what it is; you adapt.
The bathroom is now filled with all sorts of rips and cracks to the point of never being able to fully heal; everywhere there are cracks, bruises and actual holes where once fine marble existed.
The air is getting denser and denser to the point of suffocating; still you refuse to take caution and put on a safety mask; after all it's just a bathroom - right?
You fight and claw through the ever-shifting darkness of light blinding your eyes from seeing anything, but whatever is right inside your tunnel-vision.
Each day a battle to survive - making it harder and harder to stay - still you stay and when you do run you never run far; the allure of just finding the right vent, the correct temperature; the missing link
always bringing you back to the point of origin.
I mean, it still is just a bathroom; why should it be so hard? It must be something you are doing wrong; right? Just one tile moved out of place by accident, if - if only you could find it, it's so simple; right? Just a little push in the right direction and then eeeeverything will be fine!
Time passes, time freezes, the circle of knowledge evolves from nothing into more nothingness.
Your olfactory system starts to heightened it sense; searching, analyzing, nostrils vibrating; catching that funny smell, just like what comes right before a storm is to arrive; the tension of electrons buzzing, the sound of nervous birds chattering; trees bracing for impact, the very sky inside the room wobbling.
BRAAWWWWWKKKKKKKK! STRIKE ONE hits you right in the gut! BRAAAAAAAAWK! STRIKE TWO barely misses your head - you fall down and get up to look the very demon that was the floor rise up beneath the ashes of condensed shit as the illusion of reality starts to bend; to crack - as if it is ready to burst at any moment; you grip yourself has hard as you can; sheltering yourself for what you now know is to come; the dreaded moment; the one you've known always comes at the conclusion of war - and with it the shrieking sound of silence in the eye of the storm.
Then, THEN strikes the earth-shattering lightning one final time; as if the very rupture of time and space is ripping the actual foundation the room is built upon inside-out.
And all you are left with is broken pieces of ancient shit coming up to the surface in an endless stream of moments of revelation.
Layer by layer; tile by tile; crack by crack; the burning venom of hindsight sizzles through your veins.
Like pulsing magmatic needles it punctures the very foundation of your inner self.
Thought by thought, feeling by feeling is ripped apart as you see the shadow of what once was pure standing in front of you.
Blood dripping along it's spine, lumps of dark clotted blood falling from it's mouth; venom pulsing through its eyes.
No carpet to cover it's actual representation this time; a one-time only performance in all honesty, as the very core of it's being stand before you for the first time; axe in hand.
Then you look in the mirror and see your own faltered skin, blistered face and cracked bones.
Suddenly at that moment; when the agony over your own failing are at its highest; you grip your head in disbelief as the last illusion of the evil that stands before you falls down.
Now only the shell of a squirming small creature remains - trying desperately to blind you with their spell so you again will fall into their trap and not see and acknowledge the awful truth.
That people are afraid, so very afraid, so goddamn incredibly afraid of being wrong that they would rather live in their own excrement's and pretend it's not there; than take responsibility for it.
Even if that means drowning everyone around themselves in it and wiping themselves off on the nearest bystander; never surrendering to the actual fact that they themselves created it in the first place.
See the bathroom for what it is; a place where even the most fragile of things are shared with others, a place for both rest, salvation and contemplation; for being alone and together.
What you leave behind is for others to step on and take the blame for by the next person in line; even though it was not their fault.
By taking responsibility right away no one gets judged for something they did not create.
So always remember this:
One shit is easy to clean when it's fresh.
An empire of old dirt on the other hand - might just prove uncleansable.
Do you dare risk it?
posted by Øyvind at 01:25
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