Title: "Friday: The Purge, The Parcel, and the Knock on the Door"
I woke up thinking of nothing on the day. Just the usual routine. Dropped my son and daughter off at work, came home, and stepped through the door when my son texted me to pick up a parcel from the mailroom downstairs.
I had just walked in, but turned around and went. My stomach was already acting up—but I ignored it. That was my mistake.
By the time I got back upstairs, it was too late. I didn’t even have time to get my pants off. I shit myself right there, barely making it to the toilet. The floor was a mess. The kind of thing you don’t tell anyone—except maybe now, because somehow it feels like it matters.
I sat there, on the bowl, laughing. Not in shame, but in disbelief. Almost as if the body was saying, “That’s enough. You need to let go of this.”
And strangely, I felt lighter afterward. Like I had flushed something out that wasn’t just physical.
The day didn’t end there. Later in the afternoon, while we were sitting and watching a soccer special on TV, the doorbell rang. My next-door neighbor—a young Chinese guy I’d only just met in the elevator days before—told me my car door was wide open in the parking lot.
I told my son to go check. He put on his brand new NIKE shoes—the ones that had just come in that parcel. The same parcel that started the whole chain of events.
And that got me thinking. How much do I have to go through before whatever it is I’m looking for happens? I’m not even sure what “it” is anymore. Awakening? Peace? A sign?
But then I remembered—it was Friday.
And things weren’t all bad. I had a free lunch from my nephew, and dinner from a friend. Despite everything—despite the shit, the mess, the forgetfulness, the open car—I didn’t go hungry.
And this neighbor who rang the bell... I’d just dreamed of him. In that dream, my daughter was comfortable in his apartment. In waking life, he was the one who watched out for me. That’s not nothing.
Something’s at work.
Even if I don’t fully see it, I’m being moved.
Through mess. Through meals. Through small mercies.
Maybe not toward something new—but maybe back toward myself.
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