Written after thinking of taking a second shower for the day, and taking it.
I told someone recently that I’ve been taking more showers lately because it makes me feel better. That’s only half-true. I do feel better technically, but it’s not just about rinsing the sweat from my skin. It’s about this crawling, invisible feeling I can’t quite name. Something that builds up during the day, something that makes my own body feel unfamiliar again. Sometimes I take a second shower just to remember what it’s like to feel neutral.
It’s hard to explain how much of my discomfort lives inside my skin, and demands to be washed off. I feel contaminated by the day, by being perceived, spoken to, touched by digital light. Every open tab, every unread email, every task I might have forgotten. Even when nothing bad happens, I carry a residue. Like the world leaves fingerprints on me, and I can’t stop trying to wash them off with shampoo. The shower isn’t about care or cleaning anymore. It’s a small ritual of self-erasure. A way to disappear gently, without making it too obvious.
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