I usually remember everything. Splices of conversations, photographic moments in time, the colour of someone’s nail polish the moment I first met them. Then there are the empty pockets in my brain that contradict all of this. The memories I know I’ve blocked out, the short term memory I get after sleeping for too long. I value my brain yet I fear it. Sometimes I think I have early onset Alzheimer’s. I was convinced for years that I had brain cancer. When I’m older, I fear dementia. Sometimes I think I’m insane. And I am extremely wary of aneurysms. It’s all full circle, it’s always to do with my brain. I’m introverted; I think, I write, I muse, I daydream, I fantasize. When I’m sleeping I dream. No, I mean I really dream. I lucid dream. I’ve dreamt I was blind, unconscious (then conscious again). I’ve dreamt that I’ve drowned. I’ve dreamt in french. Sometimes I have panic attacks while lying in bed, thinking about the amount of control my brain has; asleep or awake. And the lack of control I have over it. But I like the daydreams and the spontaneous inspired moments. I hate the dark spots and the way my brain does math. I hate the way my brain calculates logic. It’s tragic the way that my entire existence is dependent on my mind, my entire being: my entire life is located, remembered, calculated, in my brain (and it’s the same for everyone else). It’s a blessing and a curse and I wish for my brain to be consistent, untouched by another illness, at least for a little while. I’d like to enjoy the tumultuousness.