I am letting myself go. Not in the sense of allowing myself to become unkempt and corpulent but I am releasing myself to Greaterness. To The Greaterness. Not of humanity but beyond humanity.
There is snow outside and it is colder than it has been all season. You can sense it most in the bathroom of this apartment so I wanted to write this in there but the only sitting space with a view out the window is on the sink counter. And since my wife is leaving me her half-packed belongings are occupying nearly all of the sink counter sitting space.
I began writing a poem this morning about explaining a satisfying pooping experience to a man that doesn't seem to understand me. This is a man I have sought out because I heard he could help me with a project but I quickly find out he cannot help me and so as a means of escape from this situation that is very uncomfortable for me I begin detailing how satisfying and often enjoyable pooping is. All of this is just for the poem of course.
But then I got to thinking. What kind of man writes about poop when his wife is leaving him? Or even better, what kind of adult writes about poop and calls it poop? Isn't the mature thing to do to call it shit? And more accurately, what kind of a human writes about talking about poop? And what kind of human writes about poop when his wife is leaving him? Well, at least I didn't write about shoving shit down his fucking throat because his idiot fucking face can't seem to understand he only makes things worse when he doesn't listen to me. I mean, that sounds more adult but not any more human. I am going for humanity. No. Like I said before: The Greaterness beyond humanity.
