shower scene.

having/taking the time to wash your hair isn’t a trivial labor. it’s not labor, period. it sets a kinda calm. it’s not that awful morning rush when you’re thinking about the mountain list of crap you need to get done or whether or not you feel like shaving your legs today, the only honest-to-god serious thought in your mind is how perfect this shit feels. how awesome your hair smells. how good it is to actually notice the loofah caressing you.

the motionless sigh of relief to be washing away the dirt, sweat and vitriol faced earlier in the day that had a scarlet M wrapped all over you for every single messy emotional entanglement your mind has been fixating on.

gone is the need for unrealistic ideals that you strive for anyway. gone is the need for validation, reassurance. for a few minutes in time before you physically step out of the shower, you’ve extricated irrelevant thinking and are instead focused only on the now: the shower filled environment in aromatic soaps and salts.¬†

this is your entertainment. your fetish. your porn.

on another note, some lovely shower scents: this, this, and this.