WET THOUGHTS
A SELF EXPERIMENT. AN ESSAY.
The author of this article attempted to go a whole day without water. Mentally far too unprepared for this situation, she aborted her own experiment. Here, she writes about a state in which nothing flows anymore. And in her head, everything melts into folly.
I can assure you that, as I sit here in front of this computer and write this article, I can imagine seeing inside my head. There, my brain convolutions lay fallow like dry riverbeds and are no longer in the position to transport sensible thoughts. They only flow in slow motion, at about the speed of thick, used oil.
My mental drought is the result of an experiment to survive a whole day without water. To be honest, I have only been dry for five hours. I am not drinking anything or letting any water get to my skin, but I am convinced I am suffering more than an alcoholic with withdrawal symptoms. My stiff and unwashed fingers are in front on me on the computer keyboard, surrounded by an imaginary layer of countless bacteria and germs. I feel drained, powerless and am in a bad mood.
What sounds almost pathological now began relatively harmlessly five hours ago. Thinking that I still had a good amount of water left in me from the evening before, after getting up I studiously pass through the kitchen and bathroom. The rules are clear: No drinking, no washing, no rinsing, no showering or bathing and I am only allowed to eat dry food. That means food that contains no more than 30% water. thus bread, bananas and sausage are a no go, while nuts, chocolate and crisp bread is allowed.
I had not planned anything in particular for the day, and especially no major, water-consuming activities. Half an hour after getting dressed, I go for a leisurely walk in my favourite spot in the forest, where, on weekdays, loneliness reigns and thus there is no threat of either having to speak or the loss of saliva resulting from this. I nibble dry rusks to satisfy my grumbling stomach and try to enjoy the sun's rays. It is autumn, and some of the foliage of the trees has already begun to fall to the ground.
Soon, after about a quarter of an hour walking, I feel the first signs of a persistent thirst. 45 minutes later I perceive my environment only as a potential water source: Every blade of grass, every fir cone, every piece of bark moistens my senses. All these products of nature seek only to make me eat them or rub them over my face like a flannel.
Instead of being able to escape thoughts of water, in the forest I only come face to face with the worst drinking fantasies. How should it be any different? Had I not considered beforehand that I would be closer to elementary things in the forest than between urban manhole covers and satellite antennas? After two hours of aimless wandering I am seized by a great desire to clamp one of the muddy leaves at the edge of the path between my parched lips and suck on it until a drop of moisture finally reaches my dry throat. I leave it to chance. And turn away from this place of watery temptations.
On the way back home I stop at a drinks store. Inside, I address the only shop assistant and sound as though my tongue is cemented on both sides to the limp roof of my mouth: "Do you have a thirst-quenching drink in stock that is not based on water?" She eyes me critically because of my articulation problems. However, her answer is competent and plausible: Do I not know that all drinks that are sold over this counter have had water added to them? Actually, it is clear that even freshly squeezed fruit and vegetable juices contain water, as the natural products are their own water stores before they are harvested and processed, and this water comes into the bottle with the fruit juice. I could try coffee powder or tea leaves, but then, of course, there is no thirst-quenching guarantee. I can barely stand looking at the drinks. Nonetheless, the assistant's precocious demeanour suddenly gives me new strength to persevere. I turn on my heels and am determined not to give up for the moment.
Back in my desert of a home I drag myself, despite my burning eyes, to the place where this story began: in front of my above-mentioned computer. I feel tired, dirty, that my circulation is weak and that I am not capable of writing that down. The tip of my tongue, which is not used to being deprived of water, constantly tries to wet my extremely brittle lips and only succeeds in sanding them down even more. To cap it all, the internet is brimming with water facts. The homepage of a German television programme informs me that just one day without water can lead to dizziness, headaches, unconsciousness, digestive problems and even kidney failure and dementia. Alarmed, I read on: "15 to 20% fluid loss leads to death". What percentage have I lost already? Hard to tell. Surrounded by inexhaustible water supplies, I will perish, panic-stricken and for nothing. I give up, I have decided. My hellish period of thirst is over.
Two full glasses of water restore my initial effusive courage to face life: Oh water! Cool liquid, noble drop, blue gold, source of my life, how heavenly you intoxicate me! How revitalising as you trickle down my throat. What a beautiful, fresh scent you have! How you slosh directly from my mouth into my head and make the streams in my parched brain flow again in their usual waving rhythm. Can you smell and taste water? I decide to name myself, even without a recognised jury, the water connoisseur with the best nose in all history from now on.
What else had I expected from my refusal of water today? A kind of cathartic process because of my water fast? A temporary cleansing of our industrial society, which runs water from the tap without even thinking about it? Instead of purification, I experienced futile torment and incredible longing, which ran completely counter to any self purification, and I basically ladled water with a sieve for five hours. In a few minutes I will permit myself a shower and then go to bed. I beseech you, nymphs, naiads, Neptune, Yemaniás, Equorandas, Mami Watas and however all you other water gods of this Earth may be called, permeate my sleep. Water my dreams this night, that I may wake tomorrow with fresh life flowing in my veins.
