The Clear Water Psalms

There were roses floating in the bath. A myriad of pink and red petals scattered across the surface, interspersed between freshly cut blooms bobbing on the sulphur-scented water. They drifted lazily to and fro from the slight shifts of my body.

There were demure little candles lining the marble tubsides, all wavering in response to my breath. The tub was really more similar to a modest swimming pool in size, and sat raised above the ground, equidistant from all four walls as the centrepiece of the grand and vast bathroom of the palace.

There were drops of condensation welling on the cool copper pipes running far above my head and across the gabled ceiling. Welling, waiting, waiting for the surface tension to collapse, before dripping down into the water before my feet.

Points of fire would play upon the ripples in the water. Every time a droplet would fall from the copper pipes into the bath, which happened a few times every minute or so, the lights in the water’s reflection were thrown into an instant of manic frenzy, disintegrating in the chaotic waves.

But, of course, the reflection would return to a state of calm in near to no time at all. Such are the things in this world. Anyways.

There was a massive and ornate window comprising the west-facing wall of the bathroom. Intricate designs flowed from the top all the way to the bottom, gold intertwining gold, blossoming across the glass with an immortal kind of majesty and an exquisite air of nativity.

At that time of the day, the late afternoon sun would typically have been visible through that window, but there were cumulonimbuses looming in the sky then, casting their cold and ominous shadows over the antique city that was laid before me.

A drop of water fell down and brought me back to myself, as it had happened. My knees were touching, barely tangent with the surface of the bath; Looking at my legs, it was apparent to me then that I had gained a little bit of weight, or rather, restored a little bit of weight, considering I was still respectably undernourished at that time. Then I looked to my reflection in the water, which had been there all along. My face held a countenance that was not one of joy, though not one of a particular suffering or sorrow either. It was one of waiting.

My hand emerged from the petal-covered bath, with fingertips wrinkled from sitting in the water for too long. My other hand, too, emerged- And in its palm, a rose. Yes, that hand, which was none other than my own, had held all of the beauty in this world.

These psalms will be a recollection of that time when I could have held a rose in the palm of my hand, pondering its beauty as rain would begin to fall outside the window. These psalms will be a recollection of my folly, and, indeed, of my many regrets that I still sometimes find myself dwelling on to this day. Please hear it caringly and ponder it with a gentle grace as you would a rose. Thank you.