In the juncture, in the middle of a story of love and desire and lying and betrayal and fighting to be who they are, there are bubbles.
Created by a process of water, surfactant, bit of mixing, and air. Bubbles, thousands of little pockets of air encapsulated in water. Together in a pile together. Sitting there in the bowl of white porcelain. Electrical twitching of the shaver in the background, no other noise in the house. Surprisingly quiet for 11 pm on a Friday. Yet why is the question. Not why they bubbles are there, that's quite clear. But why am I here to see them? Why is this something that for whatever reason is so intriguing to stand and stare at. Their sound overwhelms the silence. Bubbles make sound, yes. As they collapse, as the air held within each of the little tiny pockets is released. The water tension breaks and lets forth what is held within. Crackle-pop I guess you could describe it as. One of those sounds that we've never really come up with a word or a distinctive onomatopoeia for. I mean after all who the fuck goes around making reference to the sound of soap bubbles collapsing? Shit. However odd that may be, why does this whole process seem soothing. It's odd, watching it in a oddly frustrated state– as the mass of thousands let's go of what they are holding onto, letting it go into the surrounding environment and dissolving back into what it came from.
Perhaps there is a lesson to be learnt from this. That at times we find ourselves filled with feelings, tension, frustration, anger, or whatever mix of those which so often generates that inexplicable feeling for that situation. Perhaps our therapy should be some bubbles. So next time go find a quiet bathroom or washroom somewhere, and turn on the tap. Work up a lather on your hands and wash it all off and make a big pile of bubbles in the sink. Hell maybe just mix up some soap and water and dump it down there. Stare and listen. Who'd ever thought something would come of a bunch of soap foam bubbles.
