When I am not aware of my soul - when the five overt senses reach out more than my heart - I find myself stupid. Denying myself simple and accessible water, I stretch out on the beach, filling my throat with sand and swallowing sea salt. My increased thirst does not lead me to water. Instead I'm fooled into seeking more from dry grains.
Once a week, I shovel handfuls of beach into my mouth before I stumble to a hose. There I try to expediently power wash the dry disillusionment that coats inside hollow cheeks. My weakened capacity to receive goodness causes the water to ricochet off the back of my throat and I am not satisfied. I need more - more time, more awareness, more heart - but I don't seek it. For some reason, it is easier to slump back into the sand and lazily lick up its stale taste.
So when my stomach starts to churn, even though I've eaten well; and when my chest tightens despite sitting still and relaxed - I remember the sand. I've tried to let it sustain me for a long time now. It is an old friend and my taste buds have dulled enough to enjoy it. Oh, but I remember. I remember the way water used to feel before I fed from the beach. I remember a pure, cool sweetness of the simple drink. I want that again. I'm just not sure how to get rid of the sand.