3/5/25 Dripping

I like eating a cold, juicy, fresh orange in the dark, after taking a hot, steamy bath.

Warm water flows gently, my toes touch the surface first, then the warmth slowly embraces the rest of my body.

As I sink into the water, the heat surrounding me feels like being inside a womb—safe and tender.

Eyes closed, I surrender to the water’s caress—my skin meeting warmth, my hands exploring gently, fingertips gliding, pressing, releasing.

At moments, it feels like electric currents ripple through me.

My breath deepens without intention.

Soft moans rise from my throat, unconscious, instinctive.

Every pore seems to open.

Each hair seems to feel the touch of tenderness.

I massage my scalp slowly, deliberately.

I use handmade, natural products—breathing in their wild, earthy scent, like being deep in a forest.

Morning mist.

Noon sunlight.

Trickling streams.

The smell of damp soil.

The pulse of plants.

The golden hush of dusk.

Insects singing.

Birds calling.

All of it is there, inside the fragrance.

I feel it.

I inhale it.

After the bath, my cheeks are flushed, my body warm and loose.

I reach down and pull the plug, letting the water drain slowly.

The soft whirl of departure, the bathwater carrying away everything it touched.

Then I rise, step under the shower.

The water pours down like a soft curtain, rinsing away the oils, the salt, the traces of the world.

I wash myself clean, slowly, thoroughly, lovingly.

Every part of me is touched, rinsed, released.

I feel purified.

Not just clean—cleansed.

The room is thick with steam, the air warm and almost heavy.

It is dark, there's no light.

It is silent, almost sacred.

I feel slightly dazed, lulled into a gentle haze.

My body is soft.

Relaxed.

Every cell surrendering to the falling water.

My mind is quiet.

And then—I reach for it.

The orange I had set aside earlier, resting patiently on the edge of the tub.

Cool in my hand. Real. Scarred. Whole.

I press my thumb into the peel. There’s a soft resistance—then a pop, gentle and satisfying.

A sharp citrus aroma bursts out, slicing through the heavy steam—it rushes straight into my nose, sharp, piercing through the warmth.

The scent floods my senses—fresh, wild, with a trace of bitterness.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, letting it bloom inside me.

Slowly, I begin to tear the orange open with my hands. The peel yields with a faint tearing sound, soft and fibrous beneath my fingertips.

I pull it apart, feeling the delicate tension of the membrane.

It’s a quiet unraveling.

I pause—just for a moment—to feel the contrast: the cool firmness of the fruit, the hot mist around me.

I bring a segment to my lips.

The juice explodes in my mouth—sweet, sour, cold.

The contrast between the chilled fruit and the heat of my breath is striking: a sensory mix of temperature, texture, and flavor.

As I bite down, juice dribbles from the corners of my lips, tracing a slow path down my chin and neck.

It mingles with the steady stream of water from the shower, turning into tiny rivulets that glide down my body—warm and cool intertwined.

It’s messy.

Sticky juice clings to my skin.

But it feels good.

Raw and playful.

There’s no need to be neat, no impulse to control.

I let the sweetness spill.

Let it run.

I chew slowly. I savor every second.

Each bite is cool and bursting—juicy, bright, slightly fibrous, with just a hint of bitterness near the edges.

The segments press against my tongue, then burst open with a crisp snap, flooding my mouth with cold sweetness.

It’s refreshing, almost shocking in contrast to the warmth surrounding me.

The flavor coats my tongue, clings to my lips, travels down my throat.

Meanwhile, the warmth and chill weave across my body, tracing lines like invisible hands.

I feel rinsed.

Touched.

Rooted.

Fully and deeply present—in taste, in body, in breath.

It’s immersive.

Every sense alert.

Eating the orange becomes a kind of ritual.

I am here.

Here. Now.