Crumbs

I was making tea when I noticed I had fried chicken breading crumbs on my floor.

The tea was for the hangover I was nursing all day like a mother raises an itinerant child, and after spending the entire day in bed, decided to make tea because goodness knows how I will chase sleep when I've been in bed with her all day. Last night, like all drinking nights, were filled with happiness stolen from tomorrow, and a hangover is nature's way of cashing the check with 200% interest. Tea is a way to make the interest hurt less (or maybe more alcohol).

Anyway. The bread crumbs. Sometimes, when he feels like it and after he'd gotten together with Clarice Starling, Hannibal Lecter smashes a tea cup and waits to see if entropy reverses and makes the tea cup whole. If it does, then surely he could see Mischa, his sister, alive again. Hannibal has spent his considerable intellect trying to mathematically prove it could be so, and Thomas Harris describes it as an elegant mathematical exercise in incomprehensibility and nostalgic futility.

The chicken wouldn't come back from my stomach to rejoin the crumbs on the floor, I know, as much as last night cannot be retrieved and that last beer not had been had. Very much like all arguments ever held, they stay held and pieces of persons get left over after they are done. As the existentialists hold, every choice stays made after they are made, regardless of how we both in our facticity and free subjectivity make that choice.

Very much like all disorders we were born with, our facticity not only colors the very beings we are; we are those set of facticities. Hence every argument we ever make and have with people are borne out of the reasoning, existential beings we are, beings whose rational existence is so precisely because of the givens of how we are born and how we be day to day.

I spent most of the day sleeping, and if awake, arguing, and realizing that my disorders argued for me again, as they always do, as they will always do. And again, as with all arguments that stay made, they stay made with pieces of persons left over that stay left over long after a fight is done. That is, after all, the very stuff of regret. That is the very stuff, also, of scars.

I picked up the bread crumbs off the floor and threw them in the bin, sipped my tea, but didn't wait to smash the teacup on the floor. I know it will not be whole again after I do so. 

For entropy does not reverse. If it does, regret would not exist. Neither would choice.


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