A year ago spring I noticed something in myself that gave me more concern than the normal hours of suicidal ideation or murderous rage.  I started detesting birdsong.

I always thought the enjoyment of birdsong was ingrained in our evolution, and if anything in any of the religions turns out to be true birdsong would be celebrated (for example it might give you glimpses into your past life or be a long lost echo of Eden).

I thoroughly enjoyed birdsong and the gentle spring wind against my cheek when I was manic.  I no longer enjoy it, a seemingly innocuous part of myself lost, but an important one nonetheless.