You want to distantly disappear and to write to your heart and head’s content. You wish to not think at all. To just sit and do whatever you might like to do; to finally feel a part of the moment without having to be so blaze about finding a sense of peace. Or, it’s not even peace, it’s an outright balance. Other’s get to search for a semblance of what might make them happy, while other’s, then, have to navigate the utter complexity and, basically, shitstorm of a disorder. A brain disorder: holy shit! Add to that a seemingly universally fairly unrecognised disorder that follows you round like a thing with varying levels of anguish and rumination. At worst: bed-ridden; at its best: lurking like an atrocious hangover only it isn’t light fear for the following day but fear for Everything. At its best! Inexplicable. Of course you make up new sentences, new styles of thinking, because, well, your mind has unequivocally been pushed and strenuously strayed that way. Course you end up thinking differently. And yet, you wait every other day for it to finally turn itself off and stop persisting. You dream it. You are willing to give everything and anyone else up just to have it happen. Because to be homeless and balanced is better than a million friends and whatever else, only plus ocd. Truly