thirst
settle a debate: is passion back?
“The existence of thirst implies the existence of water.”
— Viktor Frankl, The Will to Meaning
Thirst is feeling the absence of all those things we desire. Simultaneously, it’s proof that those things can either be found or created. There is no thirst without water, just as there’s no demolition without cultivation.
This is, essentially, how I define being idealistic: a devotion to thirst and belief in the existence of water. To me, idealism isn’t about a hope for a polished utopia—it’s in believing that fulfillment can transform, from an abstract emptiness into the pleasantly refreshed taste in your mouth. (And anyway, there’s a whole universe between parched and utopia.)
Unfortunately, this is currently not as fashionable as labelling oneself a “realist.” Every time I meet a self-proclaimed realist, I watch the same, banal homicide play out: the murder of bright possibilities via fear disguised as logic. The realist conflates idealism with naivety, and submits to the sovereignty of what they’ve somehow deemed probable and reasonable. After selling out any semblance of idealism in exchange for certainty, they’ll shout victory over a sterile outcome, saying, of course, I predicted this, I’m a *realist.*
Self-proclaimed idealists, however, can turn a mirage into an ocean through the courageous act of believing their thirst may be quenched. All this to say: I’m idealistic as an ideal. Not by delusion, but by glimpses of what’s possible that I’ve carried forward with a current of devotion.
Again, there’s a whole universe between parched and utopia. I think that’s plenty of space to build a home. Here is a piece of mine…
The phrase starry-eyed weaves itself into my thoughts as I walk away from a practice group therapy session, which ironically, was a bit of a train wreck. Despite the group turmoil, my mind narrows into the experience of watching Z facilitate. I’m dizzy and drunk on marvel, having been moved from hurt to neutrality to an admiration so big I could vomit in the span of twenty minutes.
Through this mesmerizing display of being, he’s poured a stream of spring water into a doubt freshly carved in me by disappointment. What the fuck did I just witness? A crystalline song with fresh notes starts to play in the back of my mind. It pulls me in, saying no, you’re not crazy, this exists... and beckons to me like a warm body of water.
It’s a layered lullaby, first making reference to the world of possibilities I’m drinking in, and then to the look in my eyes, which feels so expansive I could sit and watch the sun set on the other side of the globe.
Even as I wonder how I’ve found myself here, I know it’s not a series of arbitrary accidents or a divine plan, but a fidelity to my thirst. Over and over, I’m seduced into believing that the world I want to lives in exists, and each time I feel it’s hands enjoying the shape of my torso, I hold them there a little longer to remind myself it’s real.
As we get in the car, I feel as though I’m in the white heat of something, in the bed that I’ve made, and I think it’s my home.
“…we have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness.”
— Herman Hesse, Steppenwolfe
We all experience thirst. At the risk of flirting with essentialism, I’ll say this one with my chest: it’s something we’re born with. Thirst is feeling the absence of all those things we desire. Simultaneously, it’s proof that those things can either be found or created.
Thirst offers possibility, but demands risks. It promises lightness, but demands depth. And perhaps most importantly, thirst offers beauty, but demands devotion.
Thirst musters up the shaky words, my feelings are hurt, believing in soft landings and repair. Thirst tunes into the playful conversation between a dad and his son on a bike ride, recognizing the water in hearing don’t worry, you got this! as they approach a steep hill. Thirst gets me into the sun, the friendship, in between clean sheets. It gets me into lust, and also keeps me out of trouble. Thirst breaks a scorching eye contact with shyness, keeps the words oh my god, I would eat you alive tucked between my lips, and then takes a sip of water before regret burns my throat. All those things we desire.
Thirst offers beauty, but demands devotion — devotion, which is embodied through gratifying sweat, dripping down the body of a life worth living.
Give me some time to dream and drink in the world around me, and we’ll move the boulder of impossible towards the category of possible. I’ll let my idealistic lens land on your skin, and pour droplets of fresh water onto your tongue every morning without fail. Some may call that discipline. Others devotion. It’s all the same to me.
“…even if you mapped out the whole world, precision would still yield to wonder. You can pursue the weight of knowledge, and still move lightly…”
— nix, heart & mind
I still think about thirst as my co-worker hands me a flask of Hennessy halfway through a Sunday night shift. He’s been watching me sigh deeply since I walked through the door, and keeps giving me a cloying look of endearment that makes me feel as though I’ve eaten a whole plate of frosting.
I decline, becoming charmed and half-distracted by the couple in the booth next to me, speaking to their baby like she’s just another dinner guest. My pupils dilate with warmth under heavy eyelids, until I’m brought back to earth by his insistence: Are you sure? I mixed it with Coke. It’s not water, but I’m parched.
I stare at the flask for a few seconds and laugh, realizing that ultimately, it doesn’t matter if I take the shot or not. My world yields, often and inevitably, to this sort of careless levity—resignation on an eternal Sunday night. And yet, ultimately, it doesn’t matter. If I wake up parched at 3 am, I’ll roll over and find a tall glass of water on my nightstand, which, just like the bed I lay in, has been made over the course of a million decisions — tiny and huge, easy and agonizing, all for a thirst that I’m certain can be quenched.
An auditory aperitif for your metaphorical digestion:
Óyeme Bien Aveparaiso Rmx — La Garfield… (se viene el verano chiques)
All About U — salute (if you’re thirsty)
Almost Made You Love Me — Boaksi (casual transcendent moment w/ the stars?)
Soundbites from a recent convo… (is passion back?)
J: …and why therapy?
VN: …and…I’m generally just curious about people, and think it’s so special to be able to hear their stories in such a unique, intimate setting… I firmly believe in…(many rambles later)… I don’t know… yeah, haha, I don’t know…
J: no, no, no, keep going! I love passion…
thirst offers beauty, but demands devotion!!!