We are such unsatisfied beings.
We are so hard to please, and we are always wanting more. We’re always reaching, always craving, always feeling that we don’t have enough. More. More. More. And then in the blink of an eye and more quickly than you could swallow, you’re completely stripped of everything that meant something. And there you are, bare and naked—without anything.
Breathing was a little harder that morning.
I silently lay there numbly, my eyes vacant. I was immobile. Remaining horizontal all day sounded like the most brilliant of ideas. It was so still I could hear the “drip… drip…” resonances of the bathroom faucet down the hall making its regular wake up call.
And then I broke the quiet. I rolled to my side and I told her, “all I want is a donut.”
Here’s the thing about me: I don’t really do donuts. Especially not as my first meal of the day. If anything, donuts qualify as a dessert more than a breakfast item. I ingest donuts roughly about twice a year and even then, I wouldn’t intentionally go out of my way to put one in my body. That is just the love-hate relationship I have always had with the delicious sugary glutinous crack. But that particular morning, all I wanted was a donut.