out here in the wild, loose without a therapist, only mildly medicated and perimenopausal

I listened to this meditation podcast, Sleep Magic, last night. It was all about Henry David Thoreau, and the lady read sentences from Walden—those really beautiful sentences that weren’t even written for women but for men, back in 1845. But goddamn, they were so beautiful. I want a pond. I want some words. I want some time on my hands. I want someone else to do things for me: bake, wash, worry. I want to use my brain to formulate a sentence so slick, so full of descriptive wonder—like a fast animal in the corner of your eye—so heavy in the mouth that teeth spark like the woods could burn. Some shit like that. In the weird dream state, I thought it was Jamie Lee Curtis reading to me all night long. I was also at a retreat where they were teaching and coaching me how to chill out, how to relax. This woman was almost crying because she said she could help me, and I’m pretty sure I told her that she couldn’t—that I was out here in the wild, loose without a therapist, only mildly medicated and perimenopausal. I can’t find my AirPods case, so I used some old corded earbuds, and they smashed into my ear on the pillow. Later, even now, my ear hurts. It’s like a bruise I can hear on this fine Sunday. Would I have been lonely without all of you?

-ATS