Someone filled my mouth with cotton. The inside feels thick and sticky. I run my tongue along my teeth and gums. It feels similar to the Sahara Desert - hot and dry. The one all consuming thought in my head is water. I need water.
My muscles feel like lead as I move from one room to another. One with a sink. And maybe glasses. But I'm not below drinking straight from the flow of water. I've lived with a dog long enough to know that when you're thirsty, you're willing to drink out of anything. Glasses are optional.
I drag my three-ton body to the kitchen, grab the largest cup I can find, and fill it to the brim. 32 ounces. I bring the cup to my mouth and feel the cool liquid move past my lips, my teeth, saturate the empty lake bed of my tongue, and slide down my throat as I swallow. Nectar of the Gods. The first drink is the best, as it's the relief from the only thought in my head, drink.
After that I gulp the entire glass in greediness. Temporarily my thirst is quenched, but my mouth remains dry and thick. My stomach groans against the 32 ounces of fluid pouring into my digestive system. I stand at the sink, nauseous, for a moment. Then sprint to the bathroom for fear I may either pee my pants or throw up. Possibly both.
The entire time, all I can think of is water. That glorious clear liquid - it sparkles and shines in the sun. Runs freely out of the tap into a cool, clean pool. Water. Such a beautiful, naturally occurring wonder. I need more. Is my glass big enough? Can my stomach hold as much as I need to drink? My tongue feels like sandpaper. So dry. I need more. Lots more. I'm not sure there's enough.
The thirst. It's hard to function beyond the basic need for liquid. When the thirst from high blood sugar strikes, it takes all of your energy to hold yourself together until you can enjoy the feel of sweet, cool relief. Water.
"Nothing is softer or more flexible than water, yet nothing can resist it." ~Lao Tzu