Fasting is a kind of dying--a weakening, a shrinking inside, a submitting, a letting go. It is grieving.
At least this fast is. It is the dog whose master has died turning from his food and flopping across the doorway with a sigh, his head across his foreleg.
In my case, it is gathering myself inward, silently praying, grieving and listening to the voice of God. It is waiting for God to work, standing when all that is left to do, all that can be done, is stand. It is bearing in my body the rage and contempt of the enemy, letting it batter me until it gives up and Christ wins.