"Why do we do the things we do?" she asked me one day while we walked. "I don't know," I replied.

There was a long silence that followed — not awkward, rather pensive. The cicadas were chirping at a decibel that seemed to cut through every water molecule comprising the surrounding atmosphere.

"Blaming people helps," I said.

"I guess," she said, "but can't we break the cycle? Change things somehow?"

We found ourselves at a crossroads, the cicadas blaring even louder. I looked left and right, unsure of which way to turn.

The cicadas became even louder,

and louder,

and louder.

--

My alarm is ringing and my stomach feels like it just got pumped full of gasoline.

I fumble around with my phone to turn off the intrusive sounds emanating from the small box, but the ringing in my ears is just as loud — if not more so.

It is 1:43 in the afternoon. It is also Monday.

I roll on my side — my left side — as that is the side my dad always told me to lie on if I had a tummy ache.

My tummy aches a lot these days.