I know there are possible solutions - causes of action which may result in a different outcome - the "If you write all day, you'll get into it, into your body, into your feelings, into consciousness" ethos - but this always seems far easier to quote than to implement.
When you are really thirsty - in a literal sense - any palatable liquid will suffice. After long walks over Grizedale I've been delighted by the prospect of tent-warm bottled water - self-imposed coffee restriction (because of the expense) at Latitude has made the one-cup-a-day coffee the most satisfying I've tasted - a baobab fruit drink shack in the humid climes of The Eden Project's rainforest saw me downing a mysterious, milky concoction without a moment of suspicion or hesitation. In our Western society of convenience, thirst can be quickly quenched. But, while the dryness of tongue is easily resolved by a multitude of flavoured liquids, the rehydration of my mind seems to be a more complicated and less convenient process.
Reluctance - laziness - fear. That new pad of yellow paper with its fresh-start intention remains blank. The attempt to romanticise - digging out the old typewriter - fails to bring the love story it promised. Creativity and craft - plentiful on my bookshelves but suddenly empty once in my hands. A world which used to be rich with idea is now poor and quiet. A thirst that even the luxuries of Western society cannot quench.
A Mortally Wounded Brigand Quenches His Thirst — Eugene Delacroix
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