Reflections in a bottle of Voss

In my Manhattan hotel room, they’ve put two bottles of water in the little fridge. Artesian water, flown in from Norway, in bottles substantial and grand, bottles that looks more valuable than their contents, distilled out of glaciers and fjords.

I don’t have the energy to google “artesian wells” plus “Norway”. I break the security seal. I drink.

Now, perhaps, you understand why I am weary. Even drinking water becomes a political act. A minute motion of complicity in the Earth's destruction.

Does anyone really believe we can go on shipping the water of fjords to Manhattan hotels? Think how many fossils were burnt to achieve this. Waters from Norway, blueberries in February, and Rome in flames.

Too much consciousness in all that we do. Too much nuance, and way too much taint.

If only I didn’t have a kid, I could go to Rome and eat mozzarella di bufala and arucola to my heart’s content. But as it is, I go on with my ambivalent existence, knowing myself obscenely fortunate and yet wishing my life had sharper edges. I'd have less leisure for existential angst and for overthinking (my mother's accusation against me. Just drink the damn water and shut up already!).