buchmanster

Prompt: Write a detailed description of the process of drinking a glass of water. Renovate your conception of what constitutes an event.

Time: 10 minutes

Response:

Parched, perhaps.
Pulpitations press perilously, punching at my pores.
Thirst, envelops.
Thrashing through my thoughts as I thank the theatre of time for access to my municipal water supply.
Luck hasnt the least to do with it, for centuries of civic engineers have conspired to satisfy me today.
Without a further thought, the tap, it twists, it could hardly miss, it fills my cup in a jiff, not a second is missed
A miracle, truly, if you could stop to watch the rush as the most precious fills my cup.
Grab, twist, lift. The water stops. My arms, trained for decades to achieve this precise movement, to carry objects from where they are to where they are wanted, discovered as a babe this majestic capacity to move the world to my whim.
This glass of water. It's mine. 14 billion years of universal becoming climax in this moment.
The glass moves. Not of its own accord but by the careful neuromuscular cacophony of signals I splatter through the void of my being, unbeknonwst to me even how, effortlessly.
The glass reaches my lips. A small crack in the rim from an age past when it took some kind of blow. Every glass has its war stories.
I twist. But only slightly. Lips too precious to risk on even a healed crack of glass.
I tilt. Both my head and the glass in a seamless motion designed to harness the immense power of the g force as it bears down upon our planet, forcing all material things towards its core.
Material things fall. Spirit rises. The water pours.
Gravitational forces carry the fluid, now turbulent in its tumultuous flow, through the gates of my lips into my mouth, the vast foyer of my digestion, portal to the satisfaction of my material wants.
The water has no shoes to remove, mahalo it says as it sloshes against my cheeks, picks up travellers from my teeth, and proceeds towards my uvula.
Whats a thing like a uvula doing in so profane a place as a mouth?
One must imagine it belongs elsewhere, a more sacred domain, and migrated, perhaps to remind the palate of what waits below.
Slosh. The uvula poses no opposition. The water proceeds! Straight through the esophagus and towards the great reservoir of acid below it flows ...