What Really Makes You Well?

There is a book on my desk titled
“What Really Makes You Ill?”
That I bought last month for the hell of it
Thinking perhaps I could be further enlightened
As to the inner workings of illness
And perhaps further cure myself
But as I lay here with a sore throat
And those words are the closest in sight
I realize I don’t really care right now
And I actually resent thinking about it
Nothing in that question of a title
Inspires within me any sense of goodness
Or a desire to live my life to the fullest

What I actually need is a book titled
“What Really Makes You Well?”
And it would be full of my body’s pleasant common knowledge
That my brain forgets all the time
Because I’ve so trained my mind
To search for what’s wrong
Instead of what’s right
And as the saying goes
If you search for sickness
You will find it
If you task your brain with finding anything
It will search and hunt relentlessly
And it will absolutely deliver to you
Every fucking shred of a possibility
And it will help you build an entire case
Around whatever it has found
It will help you write an entire story of origins
About the very thing you sought to find out
Whether it’s right or wrong
It doesn’t matter
You asked your brain to find something
And so it did

So if you go hunting for sickness
You will find it
And if you go hunting for wellness
You will find it
And I don’t know about you
But rather than write a whole book titled
“Everything That’s Wrong With Me”
I think it would be far more enjoyable
To write and read a book titled
“Everything That’s Right With Me”
And to praise my body
For the billions of functions it performs perfectly, ceaselessly,
Every minute
Without my conscious direction or knowledge
And to delight in all my unique quirks
And the way the Spirit sings through me
Because if my mind does, in fact, help create my reality
Then for the Love of Life itself,
Let’s make it a good one.


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