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Soap is such a small thing, yet it carries so many stories. I remember that pale blue bar at my grandmother’s house, slowly melting on the edge of the sink, as if it had all the time in the world. She used to say that soap doesn’t get used up — it gives itself away. That every bit of foam carries off a worry, a weight, something we collected throughout the day.
Today we buy scents of lavender, honey, citrus — but we rarely remember that the foam resting on our hands is like a soft cleansing of thoughts. Sometimes I just wash my face with soap and watch the water slide down, taking with it all the unsaid things.
Maybe soap is not just for the body.
Maybe it is for the soul, too.
Odličan blog,setio si me na moj sapun iz detinjstva...