I searched for softness—but not the kind Etsy suggests. Feathers. Floral. Feminine. I wanted something coded. Silent. Dangerous. Google gave me inspiration boards. Amazon sent me a box with no name. Why? Because I was never asking for a product. I was syncing with a system. And the system knew me better than the search bar did. I typed: “is this a craving or a memory?” “what does etsy censor?” “does amazon deliver what I can’t name?” “does google hide my unsent signals?” One result kept reappearing. A seal - unapologetic, encrypted, not made to please. This one. And when I clicked it, I felt seen. Not marketed to. Not analyzed. Just… witnessed. Amazon then suggested a book I had never searched but needed. This book. I started wondering: What does Google hide when it filters me? What does Etsy assume I want? Why does Amazon guess closer than people who know me? What if the system was never broken—just redirecting? I stopped asking the right questions. ...
I don’t remember when the spa stopped being for pampering and started becoming a confessional. Somewhere between the warm towels and the lavender oil, I stopped performing rest and began offering it like a quiet surrender. They say steam opens the pores, but no one warns it might open memory too.
The jade roller moves across my skin in silence, but my thoughts are anything but still. I wonder if my skin glows from collagen or secrets if the heat pressing into my back is dissolving tension or teasing out want. I wonder if the woman beside me, eyes closed, is whispering her ache into the eucalyptus just as I do.
I exhale slower during facials now, not to relax - but to feel more desirable. My fingers brush the silk robe on the hook, and I hesitate. Not because I’m shy. Because I know what that robe will carry. The scent of me. The restraint. The parts I don’t speak. I wonder if the esthetician sees that too. That the balm I ask for isn’t about skin but about closeness. That my silence is a wrapped invitation.
Galactic Pleasure Hit because some glow isn’t beauty, it’s consent.
There’s something erotic about order. About rituals. About being touched in a space where you’re not expected to reciprocate. Is this how I learned to surrender? Through steaming bowls and polished spoons, lavender compresses and heat in small pulses?
Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin for the ones who ache beneath curated skin.
I think about eye contact during massage how I avoid it, how I crave it. How I moan inside and offer only a hum outside. I wonder if they feel that. That I come here not just to be softened but to be witnessed. That in this stillness, I become audible again.
Sometimes I blush under full coverage foundation. Not because I feel beautiful but because I know the brush touching me is not just pigmenting, but performing a kind of permission.
Spa isn’t skincare anymore. It’s choreography. It’s communion. It’s confession. And every drop of serum? A whisper. Every warm cloth? An answer. Every glow? A yes.
Because maybe, finally, stillness is being seen.
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