It’s not so bad to be hungry. There are times when I really want something, or don’t want something, when I don’t let myself feel hunger. To feel anything, even hunger, would be too much. Then there are all kinds of compulsions that I engage in. But hunger above all seems most unacceptable to me. Hunger, as soon as it stirs in my belly, feels like a drive that wants to be destroyed. A drive that will destroy me. I seek comfort, I seek release into satisfaction, my life feels like something that is no longer mine to live. I reach for one, and then another. I stalk the hallway before the refrigerator. I eat plate after plate of rice rather than allow it to be left over. And only when my clothes start to shrink on me—only when my pants tighten, or shirt buttons come undone—do I begin to realize the feeling that has been wrought on me. The comfort that I have sought (the comfort, too, that I had, for the way I am unravelled). Today I want (as I have said so often before) to feel hunger. I want to allow myself to be overcome. I want to lean into my dissatisfaction, to sit with lack and understand it, to feel the confusing excess of my desire.