有人給這個群體畫過像嗎？我感覺是收入不高，比較浪漫理想化的一群年輕人？ 會有仇富傾向？無病呻吟， 喜歡意識流？
我有次在高中做自願者時碰到一個，很年輕， 需要到處出差。 談了幾句就問我都看了什麽書？
看看這篇被哈佛錄取的文書？感覺狗--PI--不--通， 無病呻吟。 都是這類貨色被入選嗎？
Thoughts Behind a Steam-Coated Door
By Neha Mahajan
Till taught by pain, men really know not what good water’s worth.
— Lord Byron
A light gauze of steam coats the transparent door of my shower. The temperature knob is turned as far as it can go, and hot drops of water penetrate my skin like tiny bullets. The rhythm of water dancing on the floor creates a blanket of soothing sound that envelops me, muffling the chaotic noises of our thin-walled house. Tension in my back that I didn’t even know existed oozes out of my pores into streams of water cascading in glistening paths down my body. I breathe in a mist of herbal-scented shampoo and liquid Dove soap, a welcome change from the semi-arid air of Colorado. In the shower, I am alone. No younger siblings barging unannounced into my room, no friends interrupting me with the shrill ring of the telephone, no parents nagging me about finishing college essays.
The ceramic tiles that line my bathroom wall have the perfect coefficient of absorption for repeated reflections of sound waves to create the wonderful reverberation that makes my shower an acoustic dream. The two by four stall is transformed into Carnegie Hall as Neha Mahajan, world-renowned musician, sings her heart out into a shampoo bottle microphone. I lose myself in the haunting melisma of an aalaap, the free singing of improved melodies in classical Indian music. I perfect arrangements for a capella singing, practice choreography for Excalibur, and improvise songs that I will later strum on my guitar.
Sometimes I sit in the shower and cry, my salty tears mingling with the clear drops upon my face until I can no longer tell them apart. I have cried with the despair of my friend and mentor in the Rape Crisis Team when she lost her sister in a vicious case of domestic abuse, cried with the realization of the urgency of my work. I have cried with the inevitable tears after watching "Dead Poets Society" for the seventh time. I have cried with the sheer frustration of my inability to convince a friend that my religious beliefs and viewpoints are as valid as hers. Within these glass walls, I can cry, and my tears are washed away by the stinging hot water of the shower.
The water that falls from my gleaming brass showerhead is no ordinary tap water. It is infused with a mysterious power able to activate my neurons. My English teachers would be amazed if they ever discovered how many of my compositions originated in the bathroom. I have rarely had a case of writer’s block that a long, hot shower couldn’t cure. This daily ritual is a chance for me to let my mind go free, to catch and reflect over any thoughts that drift through my head before they vanish like the ephemeral flashes of fireflies. I stand with my eyes closed, water running through my dripping hair, and try to derive the full meaning conveyed in chapter six of my favorite book, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." I’ll be lathering shampoo into the mass of tangles that is my hair as I work on a synesthesia for the next two lines of a poem, or the conditioner will be slowly soaking through when I experience an Archimedean high, as a hard-to-grasp physics concept presented earlier in the day suddenly reveals itself to me. Now if only they had let me take that AP Calculus test in the shower…
The sparkles of falling water mesmerize me into reflection. Thoughts tumbling in somersaults soften into a dewy mellowness. Do these drops of water carry a seed of consciousness within them? As I watch the water winking with the reflected light of the bathroom, it appears to glow in the fulfillment of its karma. Then, for a split second, all thoughts cease to exist and time stands still in a moment of perfect silence and calm like the mirror surface of a placid lake.
I know I have a tendency to deplete the house supply of hot water, much to the annoyance of the rest of my family. I know I should heed my mother’s continual warnings of the disastrous state of my skin after years of these long showers; as it is, I go through two bottles of lotion a month to cure my post-shower “prune” syndrome. But my shower is too important to me. It is a small pocket of time away from the frantic deadline and countless places to be and things to do. It is a chance to reflect and enjoy—a bit of welcome friction to slow down a hectic day. The water flows into a swirling spiral down the drain beneath my feet. It cleanses not only my body but my mind and soul, leaving the bare essence that is me.
蒸汽籠罩的門後的思緒
作者：尼哈·馬哈詹
“直到痛苦教會人們，人們才真正知道好水的價值。”
——拜倫勳爵
一層薄薄的蒸汽覆蓋在我淋浴間的透明門上。溫度旋鈕被轉到最大，滾燙的水滴如同小子彈般滲入我的皮膚。水在地板上跳舞的節奏創造了一層舒緩的聲音包圍著我，掩蓋了我們薄牆房子的混亂噪音。我背部的緊張感在我甚至不知道存在的情況下通過我的毛孔滲出，變成閃亮的小溪在我身體上流淌。我吸入一股草藥香味的洗發水和液體Dove肥皂的霧氣，這是科羅拉多半幹旱空氣中的一種受歡迎的變化。在淋浴間，我是孤獨的。沒有弟弟妹妹不經意地闖進我的房間，沒有朋友打電話打斷我，沒有父母嘮叨我完成大學申請論文。
覆蓋我浴室牆壁的瓷磚具有完美的吸音係數，可以反複反射聲波，創造出一種奇妙的混響，使我的淋浴間成為一個聲學夢想。這個兩乘四的淋浴間變成了卡內基音樂廳，尼哈·馬哈詹，這位世界知名的音樂家，用洗發水瓶當麥克風盡情歌唱。我迷失在印度古典音樂中自由旋律的誘人音調中。我完善了無伴奏合唱的編排，練習Excalibur的編舞，並即興創作後來我將在吉他上彈奏的歌曲。
有時我坐在淋浴間裏哭泣，鹹鹹的眼淚和臉上的清水混在一起，直到我無法再分辨它們。我曾為我在強奸危機團隊中的朋友和導師失去了她的妹妹在一場惡性家庭暴力事件中而感到絕望的哭泣，我意識到我的工作緊迫性的哭泣。我在第七次觀看《死亡詩社》後不可避免地流淚了。我因無法說服一個朋友我的宗教信仰和觀點與她的一樣有效而感到的純粹沮喪而哭泣。在這些玻璃牆內，我可以哭泣，我的淚水被淋浴的熱水衝走。
從我閃亮的黃銅淋浴噴頭流下的水不是普通的自來水。它充滿了一種神秘的力量，能夠激活我的神經元。我的英語老師會驚訝地發現我有多少作文是從浴室開始的。我很少有一個長時間的熱水澡不能治愈的寫作障礙。這種日常儀式是讓我放飛思想的機會，捕捉和反思任何在我腦海中漂浮的想法，然後在它們像螢火蟲的短暫閃光一樣消失之前。我閉著眼睛站著，水從我的滴水的頭發上流過，試圖理解我最喜歡的書《禪與摩托車維修藝術》第六章傳達的全部意義。我會在我的頭發糾結成團的時候塗上洗發水，當我為下一行詩句的共感工作時，護發素會慢慢滲透，當一天早些時候提出的難以捉摸的物理概念突然向我揭示時，我會經曆一個阿基米德的高光時刻。如果他們讓我在淋浴間參加AP微積分考試就好了……
水的閃光讓我迷失在反思中。翻筋鬥的思緒柔和成露水般的溫和。這些水滴內是否攜帶著意識的種子？當我看著水在浴室反射光線時，它似乎在履行其業力中發光。然後，在一瞬間，所有的思緒都不複存在，時間在一片完美的寂靜和平靜中靜止下來，像一麵平靜湖泊的鏡麵。
我知道我有耗盡家裏熱水供應的傾向，這讓我的家人非常惱火。我知道我應該聽我母親不斷警告我多年來這些長時間淋浴後我的皮膚災難狀態的警告；事實上，我每月需要用兩瓶乳液來治療我的淋浴後“梅幹”綜合症。但我的淋浴對我來說太重要了。這是一個從緊張的最後期限和無數要去的地方和要做的事情中抽身出來的小口袋時間。這是一個反思和享受的機會——一天忙碌
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