In order to revise, we divide. In total disorder can we ever hope to become whole. When you are already whole, you don't know it. You aren't thirsty enough. You haven't wanted water.
I've wanted water, but only so I can conquer it. I can't swim, but I am determined not to drown. Most of me is made up of what one day might be swallowed up by the sky and showered down upon your head. Where's your hood? Don't you want to protect the part of you that I once anointed, that I once blessed?
To be so bare invites isolation. We exist in abundance, but we die with a deficiency. I will lack whatever it is that you cannot -- will not -- give back. It is a choice. It is a way to weigh what matters most: water or blood?
So tonight I will fight the fact that from a biological standpoint we are made to dissolve. I will linger in the shadow of a hope that fire and water can coexist.
One can drown in one drop. Who would deny that? Who would deny Ophelia's thirst?