The birds I imagine nocturnal are owls. But what I hear are chirps of songbirds. “tweet, tweet, tweet” like Mary Fucking Poppins at 3 am. My cat is at the window convulsing slightly, hunting prey and I start to consider that I’m the only one who is annoyed by the symphonic display. As I pass judgment that the birds are awake too early, I remember the early bird gets the worm, and then I justify that if the birds are flying around chirping the worms will never come out, but I wonder if they can hear birds in the dirt or if worms have the sense of hearing. I move from thought to thought until I get pissed off that I am too stupid to know if worms have ears. I’m thankful for the internet. I can read a 2 page article on Understanding Earthworms and confirm they have no ears, no hearing, but they detect vibrations and can breathe through their skin.

I’m not comfortable in my skin. My anxiety is high and I’ve been down a lot. I was on Zoloft for a bit 10 years ago and hated it, but the commercials capture me now like I can’t believe—I am the little oval stone who hates it’s reflection, who is frowning too much to follow the ladybug, who shakes with pink cheeks when entering a room and sees people talking and laughing. I want to be the post-Zoloft stone be-bopping after ladybug, in a conga line at the party, worry free and filled with self love. But marketing is just that and I have no trust for it.

I can’t bear the thought of taking another pill, my liver and kidneys would not forgive me. I down two pills for cholesterol—the silent killer I cannot see nor hear, but wake up swollen and itching to prevent it My blood pressure meds have created an hour sized bladder and there’s anemia, pre-diabetes, poly-cystic ovarian syndrome and a string of ails and cures relating to a handful of genes and a heap of obesity. My mind and body oppose one another, sabotage well-being, and I am the soul--the sole mediator, who can save it all, but my deepest self must be moved and I feel a stillness, a hiding, a freeze.