How Listening to You Sing in the Shower Revealed Things About Our Life Decisions
First off—
you are not auditioning for anything.
No judges. No golden buzzer.
Just soap scum, mildew,
and me,
feigning deafness
as your voice argues with your own credibility.
You hit notes the way most of us
hit adulthood:
off-key, but confident,
hoping no one notices the wobble.
Bravado works—
at least until the bridge,
where falsetto reveals what you’ve been avoiding:
the student loans,
the job you don’t really love but still post to LinkedIn,
the enigmatic packages marked self-care
which, if we’re honest,
are little more than elaborate procrastination.
Here’s the irony:
in the shower you are free—
yet nothing screams captivity more loudly
than a breakup ballad
sung into a loofah.
Denial will not be washed away by water.
Perhaps this is all of us:
shampoo bottles as microphones,
carrying ourselves along on the theory
that noise is progress,
that rhythm is meaning.
Our decisions stream out in choruses—
the missed lyric,
lost potential;
the key change,
a career pivot;
the pause?
You—trying not to think about dying
before the conditioner sinks in.
I’d laugh,
but I hear my own life in your medley:
a remix of delusion and resilience,
equal parts tragic flaw and comic timing.
The joke lands because it’s collective.
None of us is really singing—
we’re all humming our apologies
into tiled acoustics,
hoping someone forgives the wreckage.
Your shower aria revealed more than intended.
Not about your voice—
but about the choir we’re all in:
off-pitch,
earnest,
convinced the steam hides us,
when really,
it only fogs the glass
long enough
for us to strike a final pose,
hit a note we can’t hold,
apologizing to no one;
unless—you count
the neighbor who just knocked on the wall.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2026
|