Thirsty

I always manage to start writing things at ungodly hours of the day, irrespective of which part of the world I am. For reasons yet not fathomable by me, I always go into a very reflective mood in the night time. And then I think about something really silly but it appleals to me. And then I am forced to write it.. Because if I dont it hurts that part of me that must create and keep creating. So what am I writing today? Read on...
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A weary traveller walks through the desert with a full ration of water. His throat is parched, the sweat has long dried up on his face and he has the typical stink of someone who hasn't gotten the rest he deserves. He is very thirsty - thirsty enough to feel wincing pain as he tries to swallow his spittle. He knows that he must drink the water to satisfy his thirst. It is a blind fact that settles well into his logical self. His logical self is satisfied in the knowledge that it has found the problem, identified the solution and now expects the body to obey without question. And then there is a part of him that _wants_ to be thirsty and stay thirsty. Just to see what it feels like. To be able to know how it is to want something bad enough. This part horrifies the logical side because of its completely alien thoughts. Its the classic struggle between Logical reasoning against illogical desire.

"I think I will let go of the senses that direct me to drink the water", he says to himself.
"Let me see what it feels like to want water, to have it with me, and yet not be able to have it... To hold it in my hand and never be able to bring it to my lips."
"To feel the irresistible pull of what you want against the the unbending logic that blocks your path"

"To behold your love and not have her"

The traveller uncorks the hide holding his ration of water and is immediately assulted with the smell of wetness.
Slowly he brings the mouth of the hide to his nose, smells the water, feels the rush of expectation of his body.
It makes his eyes smart with desperation.

Slowly like a semi-somnolent snake warming itself against a rock his hands uncoil, taking the hide skin bag away from his face. He cant help the fact that he is drooling at the prospect of having a drink to sooth his parched throat.
He gawks in surprise, then in fury at his hands, which are moving the bag away from his mouth.
Slowly, his hands close the bag and replace it back to his side.
And then his expression drops back to sullen understanding.

The wind blows in the desert as the weary traveller wipes his brow and comes up with nothing but sandflakes.
He looks up and squints at the sun and smiles. It is not a happy smile - its a smile he has smiled before when he realizes some truth about his world and why he does whatever it is that he does.

"It feels romantic to be thirsty", he says to no one in particular and trudges onward.