Yes I am hungry for some abstract comfort, some abtract thing to arrive. Does drinking deliver a sip of such or does it only dull the ache of wanting it. Maybe tonight I am projecting absolutely everything into myself, like some hunk of rock convinced without a doubt it's a magnet, yearning and straining, frustrated that all evidence points to it not being a magnet. Nothing moving. How can such a pulling exist in a person who is so inept at retreiving? A grinding wrenching star that makes no light. Perhaps I am just not used to feeling this way.
It's day 25 of this practice. No drinking. Tonight it is fierce. And I can't tell if I am terribly terribly angry at not being able to have a drink or if I am simply alive with all the little bits of things that usually get drowned away. My tongue fights against the water I give my stomach, pulls away like eyes from sunlight; it tries to convince my throat the water it's discovered is close to pouring into my lungs, that it's displacing air - any lie to get the others to do the right thing: stop this mad act, close all entry points, give us what we really want, give us that thing that burns.