It's shit, right?

"Love," he says, deep into his drink by this point and just about ready to get philosophical, "is a lot like shit."

"Bravo," remarks his drinking companion dryly, unimpressed by this seemingly cynical statement.  "I doubt very much, my friend, that what you have just said can go any further than a slightly more vulgar way of saying that old standby 'love stinks.'"

"That is precisely, my good man, where you are completely fucking wrong."  He takes a moment now to stifle a belch just in case there are any ladies present and continues, occasionally pausing to sip from a glass of something or other, he can't really remember anymore what it is.  "Both shit and love can come upon you suddenly, or slowly.  You may spend all day with a slow need to shit building, or you can eat the wrong thing and have to shit immediately.  Likewise, love is something that can take its time building up, or in some cases it can be almost instantaneous.  It depends on the person, and the circumstances."

"And the spiciness of the dish, of course."  A wag calls out from the small crowd that has gathered, shortly before realizing that he really should have thought of a better joke to make than that.

"Perhaps so," the speaker says with a beatific smile that lets the wag know that he could embarrass him right now, but will choose not to do so out of the depths of his merciful nature, "but there is more to it than this."

"Pray tell, enlighten us then."  The speaker's drinking companion smiles with a trace of humor.  "Let's see how far you can take this ridiculous simile."

The speaker smiles again, and wags a finger at his friend.  "A challenge that I shall rise to, though it be laughably easy.  For love, sir, like shit, can be very messy as well.  Not in the literal sense, I suppose, though it can involve its fair share of property damage when it goes ill, but it is a very complex thing for some, and can, like a bad shit, make one feel as if death would be a mercy."

A hush has descended over the crowd now, as each listener privately recalled such a moment in their own lives that had in fact perfectly proven the speaker's point.  There was also a break as the speaker realized he'd been holding an empty glass for the last few minutes and made an assault on the bar to remedy the situation.  His empty glass having been exchanged for a full one, he weaved his way back through the maze of tables and patrons and sat down, fully aware of the expectant looks of those seated nearby, and fully committed to milking it for as long as possible.

"So," he finally says with a smile, after he has taken a few long draughts, "shit, and love.  You may find that forcing the issue with either love or shit will only cause unnecessary strain and even physical pain.  You may get out alive, of course—and it may even all work out in the end for you despite your rash haste—but you'll know deep down that it could have been better than it was, and that will eventually make everything that you've done seem foolish and eat away at whatever enjoyment you get like a sinister canker.  A good shit will happen with very little physical effort, just like love will develop quite naturally (provided, of course, one doesn't do anything stupid).  Sometimes one must admit that one must give up and merely get off the toilet while things develop a little further."

Even the speaker's drinking companion is slightly impressed now, leaning closer and even occasionally raising an eyebrow to show surprise at a particular point.  The speaker himself is feeling slightly confused as to where he is getting these ideas, they seem to flow from some hidden part of his mind that has, he assumes, always known these things to be true and only now had the opportunity to spread the world.  Idly he wonders if perhaps this is how the great philosophers felt when they gave their talks.

"We all act differently when it comes to our shit.  Some will trumpet their successes, urging people to come in and observe what they have wrought with only their digestive system and some food.  Others cannot bear the thought of it being widely known they shit at all, and will in fact endeavor to cultivate an image of being a shitless being, waiting until in the privacy of their home to do the deed.  And so it is with love:  some choose to show their love to the world, and others deny they have ever felt the emotion.  But know this:  Everyone shits, and everyone loves."

The entire bar erupts into spontaneous applause, men and women embrace, and a few people stand up and stride into the bathrooms with a new sense of purpose.  The speaker's companion rolls his eyes and nudges his companion.  "Well, I suppose I must confess to being impressed.  Did you have that speech planned beforehand, by any chance?"

"Nah," the speaker says, having come down from the initial rush of excitement that comes from being wildly applauded by a room full of strangers (well, mostly strangers).  "I pulled the whole thing out of my ass."

Somewhere, a drummer feels the urge to do a rimshot, and doesn't know why.

Starting and Ending

It begins with water on a shore.  It is not a lake, it is not a river, it is not an ocean.  The sea, perhaps; something like the uncomfortable middle child of bodies of water, unable to be fresh water but unable to call itself an ocean unless in its dreams.  This sea is relatively calm, breakers hitting the shoreline again and again, making something for its own amusement.  Rocks are worn away by the water and time; the footprints of the sea.

The shoreline more than anything else is what fascinates the man standing on the rocks.  The sea is vast and blue, building into waves and being generally predictable, yes.  And the rocks, they're predictable too:  he can see the vast patterns that time and tides have left behind clearly before him.  Yet while he can watch the sea move, it is not as surprising as the rocks, which do not seem like things that are supposed to move having clearly moved nonetheless.  They have lost weight, they have rolled and tumbled in some spots, and in others they have never rolled but have been worn into new shapes, the exposed bones of the world being picked over by the vulture that is the rise and fall of the tides to wear down into pebbles and sand and things smaller than that.  He too has some of these rocks with him, they have cut his leg when he slipped, leaving a bit of themselves in return for a blood sacrifice to some ancient creature long slumbering.

The man rubs his leg reflexively, succeeding only in spreading the blood around and in general making the whole thing look worse than it actually is.  It itches where the skin has already started to knit itself back together, the bleeding having long since stopped.  The tide has started to come back in, and it seems to him that if he does not wish to be stranded, he should turn around and head back.  At the same time, he can see more of the rocks before him, beckoning him forward, telling him that he can stand at the very edge of the continent and stare across the sea to the land beyond, if only he will stop worrying about the tides and walk with care, with reverence—for the seashore has been around for a long time and it has grown to expect a certain amount of respect from those who would walk upon it and challenge the sea.

Doubt is etched on his face, the indecision as clear as day.  It seems to him that it is a rare thing to stand where few have stood; to know that the world would show no sign of his passing but would remember, at least privately, that he had stood on a rock's surface that would be worn away and never stood on again.  But he has his responsibilities, and he was supposed to be at dinner soon, and should the sea sneak up on him it is certain that people will miss him.

But the rock's call is strong, stronger than his worries, and as he takes yet another step toward the endless ocean, as he totters on what feels like the edge of the world, land and civilization behind him and the sea before him, he smiles.  Time, for once, decides to be just a little more leisurely.  The sea is not cowed by that smile, and its responsibilities are greater than any the man has, but just the same it comes in just a little more slowly than it should, to give him time to pick his way across the land (carefully, and with the slightest of limps), back to where the bones of the earth cease to jut and instead lay flat, as if to say that having crossed the jagged rock, he has earned the respect of the ground and shall be borne safely to his destination.