The body does not want things. The body itself is not a thing. What I call my body is a radically, cosmically intricate complex of movements. There are no distinct boundaries. And yet this mind will make an object of rapid movement of/within the body. “I am anxious”. Muscles tense inwardly in the direction of the movement, attempting to suffocate some part of “myself” I have decided cannot be a part of me. Why for so long did I compress myself around a repressed joy? Anxiety was nothing more than a body trying to shake off this compression. Vibrations come into my body, resonate, and echo back out. The only real question I have is layered, and I answer it with deeper iterations of itself. Can I trust this body?