How My Brain Ruined Water For Me

Pureau water from a cask is the best water I’ve ever had the pleasure of having in my mouth.

Pureau Water

The essence of moisture

It’s crisp, it’s cool and most of all, it’s light and tastes like dream-streams. It’s also my most crippling addiction because every other water now tastes like disease.

The moment I dare to utter my feelings about this water, I hear a voice. It tells me that I should be grateful to be able to turn on a tap and fill a glass with clean water, while children walk miles every day with buckets on each end of a long bendy stick, just to bring home filthy brown water to cook, wash and drink from.

Declaring my love for this conveniently boxed water makes me feel like a white person who goes to a Kenyan refugee camp to film a documentary about the true horror of refugee life then books a flight home via the Qantas app on their iPhone in front of everyone.

My overactive guilt [read: emotions in general] gene manages to creep into action at least once per day, sucking the enjoyment I get out of any activity.

I just never imagined water to be an activity.


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