Yes, of course there is something wrong. I'm not staring at my smudged bewilderment at 5am, eating a mish mash, fairly inedible plate of too milky scrambled egg with lemon pesto splodged on top because i feel fine. My brain is peppered so badly with chaos that I become jumpy and agitated at my own imaginings, an escaped feather from my down duvet looks like some stick limbed arachnid, bouncing on the mountains of my bed. I want to sleep soundly. I want to wake up and go to a job that leaves me sated, preoccupied and financially stable, I want to have a group of friends that wish to see me so happy, I wish to treat myself to fucking cheese fondue and take polaroids of my feet in daisy chained grass. I wish my life weren't mapped out by the cystic acne on my chin, or the times I have nervous breakdowns, annual blips on the radar that cause lasting damage. By the time one heals, another begins, slowly unravelling inside me, I imagine it like melting toffee, like that video of snails fucking I saw once, the tendrils, alarming but fascinating to watch.