The very idea of “everything happens for a reason” is what makes us, as humans, entirely, categorically, that which submits us to be human.
We want us to have a reason – we devise plans for placing facts and figures to arguments, to statistical measures, to attempting to place forms onto those instances that have no form, to force form, that we are all just poetry in the past as development.
I spend a good amount of time watching things, and thus, ordering things into certain categories of this or that or whatever or nothing. I watch things by watching movies or, simply, videos that don’t amount to much. I spend my time read words, those that I agree with and don’t, and those that spark a certain amount of in-between that I develop later while sitting down and taking a shit.
Most of my “poetry” is written in my head while taking a shit. I don’t write it down until after a few and I’ve felt fully full and yet totally empty.
Did taking a shit make something I wrote the reason?
