Clementines surely saved my life and erasing your name

Waking up is easy but the second my brief rehearsed routine of feeding my cat and standing in the center of my bedroom wondering what to do next has concluded I begin trembling and feel hungry and nauseous and I stare so long the top of my head begins to ache.

I ate a bowl of cereal because I knew I was hungry. It was delicious and repugnant. So I walked over to the couch, got down on my knees and wept. I asked God for relief. I asked for ability to let go. I was clutching the afghan covering the cushions, pushing my fingers through the holes like they were eye sockets and I thought about forgiveness.

I don't want to medicate. I am not disordered. Everything is well ordered and falling into place. Every friend and every breeze bringing winter in further tells me this is all normal. I should not be ashamed. I am not ashamed I have failed and I am crushed.

If I felt nothing the problem would lie with me. My mind and body are not the problem. Don't worry about me. I don't. I have immense worries and I tremble for a reason but it is not for my own sake. This, I am told, has been the root to all the trouble however. An ostensiblly unhealthy view of love in a modern context. Looking outside one's self for satisfaction and comfort because although a person may be truly lovely and strong a person is not enough. I fear I may only ever love myself because no one else would desire to. For years I had enough love to sustain two people so I am entirely certain I have enough to love my mere self. That has never been a strain for me.

I am hungry again. A little shaky and a mostly uncertain about everything. But I now eating clementines and going for a walk.

sitting space

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.