It was another day of mayhem caused by the dog. Books scattered across the floor, its tiny paws slapping against the hardwood as it dashed around, sniffing corners, chewing on cushions. Tail wagging, the puppy explored every inch of the room in joyful chaos.

  “Not again,” I muttered under my breath, bending down to pick up a book. The puppy yipped, pulling at my pant leg as though to say, come play! I scratched its head absently, feeling the soft fur beneath my fingers. "Easy, buddy."

  The body moved on its own, scooping up the rest of the books, straightening the coffee table, adjusting the pillows. The puppy yipped again, this time tugging at the leash, eager for attention.

  “Just a second,” I said, but the body was already reacting—no hesitation. The routine was set. As I cleaned, the puppy bounded around, as it always did. I wondered for a moment, Why did I get this dog?

  I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t even decide to get a dog. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t my choice. But there it was, tugging at me with those bright eyes, chasing after my legs, filling the empty spaces of the house with its energy, its need for attention, and its constant motion. The body took it all in stride—feeding it, walking it, and now, picking up after it again. I was left in the background, just watching. The body did what it was supposed to. I was along for the ride.

  Outside, the porch garden was quiet, sunlight dappling the plants. Another task in the cycle. Water the pots, trim the dead leaves, rearrange the ivy. I knelt down, hands pressing into the cool soil, and adjusted the ivy as I always did. The sun warmed my skin, but the question lingered—Why am I doing this?

  “Seems like you need more water today,” I murmured to the plants, my voice distant. There was no real thought behind it, just another task I moved through. I had been doing it so long, the motions felt automatic. My hand tipped the watering can, filling the pots without a second thought.

  Is this my life? I glanced at the ivy. Or am I just... watching the body go through the motions? It didn’t feel like mine, this life.

  The body moved through its routine without pause—stretching, yawning, brushing teeth, brewing coffee. The rhythm was unbroken. It was a dance, and I was just a spectator.

  “Another day,” I whispered to no one in particular. The words felt hollow.

  I looked at the dog as it tugged at the leash, pulling me toward the park. The familiar sounds of the neighborhood filled the air—children laughing, birds chirping, a dog barking in the distance. Neighbors waved as they always did. I waved back, but it didn’t feel real. It was all automatic. A reflex. Why do I do this every day?

  “Slow down, buddy,” I muttered under my breath, but the dog was already ahead, pulling harder, eager to explore. I was trailing behind. The body, not me, moved with it.

  The dog, oblivious to my thoughts, ran ahead, darting from tree to tree, sniffing, exploring. It was completely alive in the moment—How easy it seemed for the dog to just be.

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  I envied it. The simplicity of existing without doubt. The puppy didn’t hesitate. It just ran, joyful in each new discovery. It didn’t ask why. It just was.

  Did the puppy ever wonder? Did he ever question if he was making decisions, or if he was just following some unspoken instinct? He didn’t seem to care. He didn’t need to know why. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop asking. I couldn’t stop searching for answers, trying to understand the whys and hows of every little motion.

  That night, as I knelt down to ruffle the puppy’s fur, a sudden shift came over me. The dog’s joy was so immediate, so unburdened, it almost pressed down on me. I glanced down at its wagging tail.

  "You don’t have a care in the world, do you?" I said, my voice low, almost lost in the quiet night. The puppy tugged at the leash, its eyes wide, eager, as if urging me to forget whatever weight I was carrying.

  It didn’t care about the questions. It didn’t need to know why. It was too busy being.

  A thought circled in my mind, unbidden. Was the puppy better at this than me? Was it simply living while I was stuck, questioning? The simplicity of just being—it was something I lacked.

  How could I let go of the constant questioning? How could I learn to just live like the puppy?

  The next morning, as the body slipped into its routine—teeth brushed, coffee brewed—I tried to change it, just once. I willed my hand to stop, to put the coffee mug down before it reached my lips. But no—my fingers gripped the mug, lifted it, and I drank.

  “Come on,” I muttered, frustrated. “I should be able to stop this.” The resistance was like a wall. The harder I fought, the more impossible it seemed.

  It felt like trying to stop a river. No matter how hard I tried, it flowed on, unyielding. And then the thought struck me—what if the body had always known how to move with certainty, but the mind, tangled in its own doubts, had been the one holding it back? Now, with the mind out of the way, the body moves freely, unburdened and sure.

  Maybe, out of feeling overwhelmed, boredom, or sheer impulse, I just wanted to record my day somewhere. Maybe because of my frustration with having to clean up the books every other day, I remembered the journal—the one my parents had given me years ago. It had always been there, tucked away on the shelf, a gift with a simple instruction: Write down your days, no matter how trivial. It’ll help you understand.

  I didn’t know where to start, so I simply opened the journal and let the page greet me. March 8th, 2025. The pen hovered over the blank paper, unsure of where to begin. But as the minutes passed, the thoughts found their way.

  Slowly at first, unsure. And then, with more confidence. The words flowed, not forced, but released. It’s a start, I thought as I stared at the page. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. The body had simply followed my command, allowed me to make a choice, and in that moment, I wasn’t just another step in the routine. I was something more. I had added to it. And in that small act, I realized I could do that—add to the routine, instead of simply following it.

  The next day, I found myself kneeling again in the garden, fingers pressing into the soil, adjusting the ivy. The sunlight filtered through the branches, casting soft shadows across the ground. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze. I wasn’t rushing through this task, wasn’t questioning. I was just there, simply present. I was there together with the body as I played with my dog, as I greeted the neighbors, as I cleaned the dishes. And I felt alive every step of the way. Unburdened by my thoughts, leaving it to the body to tug me along when I lose focus but never dismissing the actions, no matter how trivial.

  And I realized—I wasn’t just moving through the motions anymore. The routine had not changed, but I had. I was no longer just following. I was with it.

  That night, as I closed the journal, I felt something shift inside me—something quiet, but significant. The body and I had moved together today. It wasn’t about fighting the flow anymore. It was to understand the lessons it is trying to impart. To accept the change it brings and participate every step of the way.