…to purge all of you

Scott’s eyes, which had been drifting, moved back up to pass over the phrase again.

…to purge all of you

This was rather peculiar. He shuffled his feet, zipped up, and pulled the handle to flush the urinal. There was something cryptic about the little fragment. It stood out from the layers of the years. Of course there was the dried snot, long forgotten presidential candidates, badly drawn penises, and other supposedly comical outbursts of homo-erotica (Mike Fisher sucks cock) that adorned the wall.

The curious phrase stood out amongst the other crudities like a torch; a nugget of wisdom (or nihilism) that was left just for him. Even more fascinating was the inability to read the first part of the sentence. What was doing the purging? And who?

Scott, of course, was a writer. And writers find these secret messages that others don’t see or choose to ignore. He found himself wishing that the phrase were complete as it appeared and that an arrow was drawn pointing to the handle. Flush to purge all of you.

Some heavy-handed symbolism perhaps? Or maybe someone’s crude attempt at a joke? He could accept both of these explanations. In fact, he desperately wanted to believe the first. His belly began to flutter a little at the thought of someone throwing their existential anger up against the wall for all to see. Out came the notebook and pen (you never know when these opportunities may strike!) so he could scribble down the partial sentence that had captured his imagination while he relieved his bladder.

Then another thought occurred to him. What if he was going about this wrong? Maybe this anonymous philosopher wasn’t raging against society at all. Perhaps, he was a Buddhist seeking enlightenment by espousing the need to purge what makes you human. Purge all of YOU.

Scott jotted this all down furiously, his mind unable to contain itself. Just then, someone walked in. Scott could feel the eyes that were undoubtedly staring at him. People were always staring at him and he couldn’t understand why. He didn’t turn to look at the intruder, instead continuing to scribble. If he had turned, this and every other time, he would’ve noticed no one is ever staring. He didn’t have to look because writers can just feel these things.

Once he was satisfied with his various interpretations of the phrase, he quickly left the bathroom and almost bumped into a frumpy girl on the stairs.

“Excuse me,” he muttered inaudibly and hurried back to his apartment.

When he got there, he tossed his bag aside and hunched over his keyboard. The notebook was flipped open and he began to compose a narrative in haste. He would make a story out of this discovery. It’d be written in third person, of course, and he’d give himself a simple name like John or Mike.

And then he smiled.


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