The world, it's weird. You know? Not weird the way that having a fetish or dipping your French fries in soy sauce and mayonnaise is weird. Weird in a beautiful way.
And beautiful in an ironic kind of way.
I'm not disputing the fact that fecal matter is a pathogen to most species, but it's also a magnificent signifier. The BatSignal is to Bruce Wayne as feces is to flies.
Look at it this way:
Port-O-Potties have no running water, so as the excrement piles up, more flies gather.
Dead is the most relaxed you will ever be. More than any massage or acupuncture will ever relax you. More relaxing than the deepest sleep. Meditating Tibetan monks lying in sensory deprivation tanks don't reach the level of relaxation brought by death.
Every muscle goes limp—including the ones controlled by the autonomic nervous system. Your pupils dilate. Your lunges deflate. Your sphincter relinquishes its job as Gatekeeper of Your Bowels. Essentially, you shit your pants. All other animals die the same way. Only difference is they don't have pants to keep the shit hidden.
Here's where things get cyclical.
Fecal matter gives off a scent that attracts flies. They gather. Eggs get laid. Larvae hatch, grow, transform, then gestate. Eat. Sleep. Poop.
By this time, the swarming flies, all coveting the fertile breeding ground, they look like a black cloud. A silver lining blizzard of wings in the desert. Other animals notice the spectacle. They meander over, looking to scavenge a meal.
Organs get eaten, one-by-one. Hoorah. Hoorah.
The meat—muscles, while the organism was living—are devoured.
The bones are picked clean by whatever picks bones clean. Maybe a bird. Maybe insects. Starving coyotes. Whatever.
Those animals poop.
Fertilizer.
Photosynthesis.
The geometry of life. Governed only by the radii of the circles we dare to explore.
Ain't that some shit?
