- Reviewing my writing conventions. Mood and tone.

The bathtub is white. Sometimes it glistens, but mainly simmers a bored pallic color when the drops aren’t falling.

But when the water splashes, the white comes to life. Gleaming rainbow prisms refract and reflect beneath the waterfall. Swirling, ebbing water laps at feet, warmly at first, until the waterline rises and now threatens to submerge limbs. Even the froth can not disguise the clarity of the water. Only spasmodic white hues reveal it.

As a common cleaning mechanism, the whiteness if often blackened. Mud, hair, or odd specks of dust float around. To be in a bathtub is like being in a warm jacket, or under sheets during a cold winter’s night, while the joy of eating is readily available in the water’s misty steam.

Hot water is angry. It churns and lashes. It eats away at the porcelain, stabbing and slashing, and feet immediately withdraw from its fiery spears. It is the most ill-lived temperature. Anger is stifled as the knobs turn. The to-be-washed quickly kills hot with antipode cold.

While pleasant on hot days, cold water incites the same reaction as its cousin. Instead, air flies out of lungs, but a sense of calm is retained. Cold invites peace. Busy, hectic work schedules and blistering car commutes quickly dissolve within cool’s fluid grip, though clinging on means carelessness, and eventually hypothermia.

The bathtub is best suited for warm water. Tepid is my favorite. All the senses shut down voluntarily to experience rest. One could sleep in a tank of warm water, and I have.

All in the bathtub. Hot, cold, and finally “just right.”