I was born on a sinking island under a waning moon. They shrouded me in galaxies and fed me broken stars. I was woven into constellations and named after love.

My fate was etched into the universe and written by the night.

And although I sometimes wish I had remained in the nebulae to be cradled and embraced forever by the moon, I know I am not just another star in the sky.

I am exactly where I’m meant to be; besides, I can always look up and feel the comforts of home.

My parents had me in their early 20s—not too young, but young enough. I once asked my mother if I had been unwanted. "No," she replied. "I wished for you for a long time." She thought she'd never become a mother, but she did—four more times.

I was born first, and the eldest children are the experiments—especially daughters. We're the role models; our job is to teach and guide our siblings through life.

I don’t mind being in charge—sure, sometimes I get called bossy, which I pretend to hate but secretly love. It reminds me of Kristy from Ann M. Martin's The Babysitters Club. Kristy is the head bitch in charge—and like her, I relish it.

Life was simple back then. I have an enormous family and was always surrounded by love. When I say huge, I'm not exaggerating—both my mom and dad have eight siblings, and as a result, I have countless aunts, uncles, and dozens upon dozens of cousins.

When I wasn’t with one side of the family, I was with the other, playing, laughing, and annoying each other, as close family does. We were so close we didn’t consider ourselves "just cousins." We were siblings, and we still are. Some bonds never break, no matter the passage of time.

And it’s a bittersweet feeling,

really difficult to explain.

I’ve met a lot of people,

I’ve loved them very deeply.

I know I can't control the way they loved me back:

aggressive, intense, tiny little stitches,

they burn my skin.

I look often at their patchwork

and the past we share.

And I’ve known you for so long now—

I love you very deeply,

and I can’t control the way you love me back:

harsh, fierce, tiny little stitches,

they scar my skin.

And it’s a confusing feeling,

so hard to understand.

My skin’s marked by people,

by the people I very deeply love.

I know I can’t control the way they love me back:

piercing, burning, tiny little stitches.

I wish I could see my skin.

I often look back at myself

and the people I’ve met.

I wonder if I’ve marked you the same now.

You love me very deeply,

and I can’t control the way I love you back:

aggressive, intense, tiny little stitches.

I see the scars in your skin.

Puddles.

Why not begin this account with a bit of philosophical rambling from the the ADHD author who penned it? One day I was walking across a North Dakota street to the store around the corner from my sister's house were I'd taken up residence when, all at once, I looked down at a puddle left over from a rain.

This got me to thinking: at what point in my life did I stop playing in puddles? At what time in all our lives does the nature of puddles change? I propose here that puddles may be used to mark the passage of time.

During the childhood years those little collections of mud infused rain water are a source of gaiety, of entertainment. We laugh and splash our siblings, friends, or other relations in innocent glee. I sure know I did. Then one day that all goes away. Puddles become a nuisance. They make us slide, they ruin our brand spanking new footwear, or they are splashed upon us by passing cars in a seemingly malevolent mockery of our own childhood splashes.

When in a person's life does this happen? That's hard to answer because it's such a gradual and organic process most of us don't notice. I noticed, for I fancy myself something of a philosopher. I wonder what happened to my childhood love of puddles.

I've died and come back( that when I was only a dopey toddler). I've been in and out doctors offices. I went to college. I've made friends that became brothers, brothers who became write offs, and seen at least one write off get his crap together.

As of the time I Penn or rather type these words I've escaped from a purgatory that almost ended my life via my own hand. I've been a paraeducator trying to help kids who didn't always want it. Only God who brought me back from the otherside knows what I'll be from there. You'll see a little of what I am. a little of what I'd rather not have been and perhaps we can solve that riddle of the relationship of puddles to the changing of life's fickle seasons.

Adaption, evolution - it comes for all things. They've changed like everything has, shedding skins as the world spins through time.

Lust pulls a long drag from a cigarette, grinning. Its newest script hangs from the limp, shaking hands of the actors trying not to be sick, not bothering to protest regardless. They look at Lust with eyes that are dead when not illuminated by red camera light, as they slip into their false persona for the scene, back out of it just as quickly to turn to what relief they can find. Don't worry, Lust croons, pressing money, drugs, noose-tight contracts into desperate delirious hands. Cameras, recorded videos, faked expressions and exclamations, hidden pain - the numbers of viewers only climb with each dawning day. The triple-X ratings and urls burn behind Its soulless eyes.

Greed hides behind walls, behind deals, behind suits and smiles and lies. Power comes to those at the top, and Greed finds the cutthroat climb exhilarating. Money pours though tightened fingers into crypts, into vaults, into the newest corruptible climber. One more, add it to the pile. Journalists circle like mosquitoes, causes represented by forgettable faces praise what little runoff flows their way. Greed sees itself in faces of anyone else who climbed this far, the faces at the table. Who cares if the world is dying? they laugh together. Investments grow, bribes are given with sly handshakes and unspoken threats as Greed looks towards new interests - anything to add to the hoard.

Gluttony is twinned, split apart and still ravenous. The older twin laughs as it watches endless videos, new recipes, new eating challenges, new lives wasted by hunger that never lessens - It works closely with its siblings, feeding the fear of not enough, never enough. It turns the gaze of the world away from consciousness - why not have another bite? it croons, revealing in supersize, in the appetite of the ignorant, of the rich. The younger twin whispers behind a new face, a six-pack of abs, a new morning routine video. It promotes moderation - count your calories, watch your weight, follow this new diet. Organic, Vegan, Raw, a million trends to try, a million voices clamouring for recognition. Here's a tip to loose ten pounds, here's a weird trick, here's a recipe. You want to look your best, don't you? it laughs. Effortless results, It promises, heaping lies and misinformation like another serving on the older twin's plate.

Sloth lives happily in a world of automation - no need to get up when it's delivered to your door, it thinks. It has climbed upwards like Greed, but instead of climbing ever-further, settles into contentment like a hibernating bear. It is content to watch, to forget the world in order to sit in front of a screen - shorter, faster, no need for pointless exposition when the action starts faster than ever. Shrinking attention spans and voices that it chooses to trust soothes it to sleep. No need to read when the information is delivered in a five-second snippet. No need to dig further when its faithful siblings speak and drown out all other voices.

Wrath cackles as it starts another pointless war. Anonymity is a shield, is a weapon sharper than any other sword. It uses carefully cropped facts, anecdotes, taking what suits it to form a bludgeon. Gaslighting, laughing, excuses, abuse, form into words, into accusations. Blood pounds in its veins as it read over the debates - the old arguments for fox-hunts and bullfights roaring alongside new defences over locked-ring boxing, the newest action movie promoting the bloody fight of a new white hero, the right to bear arms. It pulls up another enemy to throw into the ring. The argument is perfect, is beautifully sincere in asking for engagement. It doesn't matter. It's a fight, like any other. It stands on both sides of the argument, screaming slogans that go unheard by both sides, misrepresented facts and tear-jerking stories, quotes, verses. Anything to fuel the fire.

Pride's streams are the most-viewed as it denies allegations, as it covers over accusations. It's perfect, and its viewers agree. It reads the comments, calls the names of those who do it a favour, pretends to care, pretends to be thankful. It knows it's so much more important than anyone else - if it wasn't, why would it be this successful? It offers advice like alms to the hungry masses - it just takes hard work and dedication, it promises. It ignores circumstance, the privilege of birth, of colour, of country - The angry comment sections wondering if Pride is simply ignorant to the struggles of others, or if it doesn't care, demanding acknowledgement are blocked or shoved away by a crowd of follower's praise. Pride moves on to plan their next perfect post - it doesn't care, and why would it? Life is perfect.

Envy has grown into a thousand platforms, seethes and cries unseen for what it cannot have. It scrolls endlessly, liking and replying false congratulations as it hates with a hundred-million unblinking eyes. Each smiling face, each newly-launched success sinks into resentment that festers around it. The perfect lives of its rivals mocks it through the newest successful post. How dare they, it thinks, it echoes. It has pages of wish-lists, piles of credit cards, anything to fill the void, but it will never be enough.

"Anxiety is something everyone has."

That statement has been stated many times, by many people.

While everyone gets anxious sometimes, there are people, like myself, who get anxious a lot of the time. They get anxious over big things. They get anxious over the little things. They get anxious over nothing at all.

They question things no one ever wants to question for no reason.

They notice their friend is having a bad day. They think, "What happened? Are they okay? Do they need help? Did I do something? What if I did something and now they are not going to speak to me ever again?"

They overthink everything. They walk out of their house and think if they forgot something, or forgot to do something. When they leave they think, "did I lock the door? What if I didn't? What if someone breaks in and steals my cat? What if I left the stove on? What if my stove burns the house down? Did I forget the light on? Did I lock my car? Did I feed my cat? Did I see my cat this morning?"

So yes, some may experence the feeling anxiety, but others, Anxiety is a never ending plague.