Everyday we muddy ourselves a little bit more, either through the addition of more dirt to the mire, or the slooshing and sloshing of preexisting dirt in the swampy cessness of self. There's no getting clean. Not now. The cleanest we feel is when we are comfortable and accepting of ourselves and our dirt and mud and our squelchy mess.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Thursday, October 2, 2014
I tried washing my hands today. They felt like they were covered in face grease. Saliva. The thick sweat you get under an armpit or deep between butt cheeks. Warm. Deep stickiness. Melty, napalm-marshmellowy levels of magnetic adhesiveness. I tried again. Still failing. Still failing while trying.