Hungry for rice. Asian rice. A phantom of a desire so strong.
Don't want to admit it. Like grief. Grieving what I'm not - a restful soul at night. A twist of expectations and none too tasteful for the logical mind.
I don't need rice. It's just a passing thought.
It's late. How dare I desire rice this late in the night.
I'm needy and fussy and difficult.
There are snacks. Snacks ought to do.
My body wants rice. Start cooking.
Rice. Sauteed spinach. Fried eggs. Topped with soy sauce and shichimi hot pepper.
An 11pm meal. The mind is wild with controversy and outrage.
Then rice. More rice. Five platefuls of rice. Still the mind resists what is and declares the absurdity of a gastro-cosmopolitan craving rice and nothing but rice. And yet I'm so happy I could cry. Never craved for rice like this before, thirsty for rice like I couldn't get it into my system fast enough.
A psychologically curious and anomalous end to my streak of sandwiches, salads, and pastas.