On Why I Don’t Flush my Toilet.
 
I don’t like to flush the toilet because it makes me feel a little bit older every time I do it. I’ve always conceptualized toilets and sinks to be the entrance to another reality – a metaphysical netherworld. Each time I press the flush lever of the toilet, I feel as if I am ejecting a tiny bit of my embodied “soul” into an unknown dimension and territory, where a part of me – my remainders, simply vanish from this reality into another space and time in a spiraling motion to, for better or for worse, be stored, revitalized, and transformed. This phenomenological disembodiment and decadence makes me feel older, weaker, smaller, and more disengaged, as each ejection detracts and slices away a portion of the core of my existence.

Another reason why I hestitate to flush the toilet is the fact that you can only perform a task so many times in your lifetime before you “run out” of that particular task and reach singularity upon transience. Each time you do anything– let it be kissing, spitting, taking a step, yawning, sneezing, or jumping, you take away, annihilate, and subtract from the totality of the potentiality and possibility of each task at hand. This is why I feel older and closer to my own mortality each time I flush the toilet, for I only have a finite number of flushes left in my lifetime. They say that babies are blank slates that get written and added onto through experiences, and that their beings, identity and existences are fragmented pieces that cohere through time. But from another perspective, we actually get ‘written off’ when we age, becoming less and less of an open whole as we deconstruct and decenter ourselves to create disorder through time and experiences. The futility of finite possibilities strips away the totality and the potentiality of our being until we reach the singularity of our humanity.

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