The trembling. I feel my own trembling and fragility. About to let go and fall. I was struck initially, in my state, by the passionless suicide of each droplet. Clinging and then decidedly and precisely plunging, pulled by it's engorged and ripened weight into space. Such beautiful dispassionate simplicity lightened me and distracted me from my brooding and disquiet.
The rhythm. Its regularity like a metronome. Warm and comforting. The clean simplicity of the porcelain with heavy aged metal. Worn and polished. Neither pretentious nor shabby. I see my reflection in the metal and the reflection is there, so fleetingly, in the water before it falls. After it falls the next drop emerges without hesitation, grows full, grows heavy and drops; it's departure not an abandonment, but a small echo that reverberates and then swells.
The metal links of the stopper drape elegantly and also conjure memories of the inexpensive chains I used as a teenager to keep charms about my neck. That girl was full of uncertainty and determination, the simple chains a reminder of her sweet struggle to navigate a world of conventions and inexplicably imposed obligations. Further away, but stirring some distant rage, is the implied boundary : inaccessible sanctuary. private property. Far far below those suspended orbs, a shadow cast. I wonder what lies beyond where my eyes see.
I was initially charmed by the beauty of the faucet itself. Simple, sturdy. Dripping not because it is cheap, but because every natural and beautiful thing has leaks and cracks. Imperfections are a relief. They offer some feeling of assurance, some release from a veneer of perfectionism or control.