Thirsty

I live in a place and time where I have never felt true hunger or thirst. I have never reached the point where I felt as though death were at my side, the sythe at my neck, awaiting for my soul. The shadows of black wings have not brushed my head as they passed over. I won't hope that never happens, because it would be foolish to run into the arms of death on a whim.
So then why do I starve myself of His daily offerings, why do I not partake of His offering of water. My soul hungers and thirsts, and I shake my fist at Him asking why he does not sustatain me. I thrash around in agony, asking why he does not heal. I throw my head against the mountain, asking why it does not move. I sit and scream, asking why he has abandoned me.
When my heart is still and I have nothing else to ask, He speaks to me. I held out my hands with bread and water, but you refused me. I waited for you to come for healing, but you only demanded I come to you. I lit a lanterns to show you the mountain path, but you only looked at the ground. I displayed all my wonder, and you turned around. I provide, I clothe, I feed, I heal, and I love. Only for my glory, not for your selfishness or comfort.
Who am I to demand of God? Who am I to deny myself of what He has freely offered?