I am, as you accurately observe, full of shit.

I mean, what else can one body contain but its own ultimate origin and end. A body without organs, as all bodies are when they reside outside the hungry fangs of perception, in tune with their basic nature, communicate by osmosis. The greedy mouth grows tentacles, antennae, and satellites, but I keep outside its reach, crouched safely in a niche on the corner, a dent created in the fluid continuum by a renegade quark. There, I let materials fecal and elemental permeate through limitless membrane, in and out, content with oscillations, like finding joy with continuous rubbing of skin against skin, perpetual dissolving of sweat in saliva in sweat, eternal exchange of breath, not out of fear of the shock of some orgasmic end, but to sustain the savoring of the scatological and the eschatological, flowing in and out. After forty days and forty nights meditating inside the cave wallpapered with the tangle of the roots of the bodhi tree smelling like the murky waters of Walden Pond, I found that the essence of beauty and truth is in fact shit. No matter how well you and nature try to dress it up, the necessity of survival takes us back to where we begin: dirt to dirt, filth to filth. That’s why separation hurts. It cuts you off from osmosis. When those carving teeth work, individual forms take shape, and that blurry image you see in the mirror actually becomes another person. Then, you have no choice but to depend on words. You wish that tears and prayers can transcend distances, but you are never sure. Without osmosis that homoousios thing does not really work. You can only wonder what he is thinking. “I’m just looking at the clouds,” he says, but what is that supposed to mean? When those incisors slice, semi-permeable membrane becomes skin, and skin becomes walls and a vast ocean. Then, there is a difference between then and now. Then, you have to, when you say “I won’t be able to see you for a long time,” bear hearing him, only four the first time and eight the next, say “I’ll just have to be patient,” like some ancient sage. So, after forty days and forty nights meditating inside the cave wallpapered with the tangle of the roots of the bodhi tree smelling like the murky waters of Walden Pond, I will just give in to the worms and maggots. Then, I will have a chance at seeping through roots, saturating cambium and vacuoles, working my way to leaves, and eventually to a bowl of soup. I will pervade into his esophagus, stomach, and intestines, leak into his villi, and play in his bloodstream as long as he lets me. When my time is up, I will just leave and flush myself down the toilet. Later, maybe, I will just work my way back. So, I am, as you accurately observe, full of shit. That, my friend, is how I love.