It was just another day of emotions. My ears rang with confusion, my head drug the dull hardwood floors in great dismay. “Where should I go?”, I mumbled under my breath. “Why of course, to the ocean!”, my conscience confidently spoke to me. So, I heard the bells ring and jumped into journey mode. My keys jingled in my shallow pocket as I scurried out of the house. I cranked up the squealing motor and plugged my ears to avoid the skin crawl. After cruising for a bit, the music soaked into my bones and immunity took over. I decided to head toward the ocean. “Which way are the waves?”, I pondered. I cut the music off, idled the engine down and listened for the crashing waves. “Little Rock Road”, I exclaimed to myself in anticipation. Little Rock Road is a faded county highway a bit west of my home, where I've been stationed since infancy.  I tore off and put the pedal to the metal. Roughly a dozen fence posts later, I said with hesitation,  “The sun is setting and I havent found the ocean yet.” Suddenly, I ran upon a river, marked with a glittering, green sign titled “Gator River”. A horrid feeling overcame me.  As I was humming along to the song, “Down To The River To Pray”, I abruptly swerved, accidentally plummeting into the river. While the gators snarled around me, I began to sink into grave darkness, and drown in my own sorrow. The music became muffled as water flooded the speakers and carried away the once beautiful stream of melodies.  My life was rapidly descending until a huge surge slapped me like a tidal wave. I revived and realized I wasn’t dead after all.  I simply needed a therapist. Not a retail therapist, but a mental health therapist. My goodness, my thoughts were awry and all of this was a hallucination.  So, I swam out of my cold puddle of emotions and started singing with the gators- my new and improved therapists. My musical therapy was taken tragically, and all I was left with was a few singing gators.