Sometimes I wish I could live inside my head.

Inside my head tempers are never lost, words are chosen correctly and even if they’re not, it doesn’t matter because we can always erase and repeat until they are perfect and no-one ever knows the difference.

Inside my head we only have to do the fun things, the things we really want to do and everything works out fine. Even it doesn’t, we can always try again unaware of the original failure. Life makes us laugh each any every day. Inside my head we never have one drink too many, we never miss a train, never have to wait hours for a bus. We never find that the lettuce has gone mouldy from the inside when we come to make a salad, the freezer door never fails to shut properly, mice never leave little trails of evidence across the kitchen counter.

Inside my head shower curtains don’t spontaneously dissolve and even if they did replacing one wouldn’t take two and a half hours, visits to six shops nor involve two traffic jams leaving us with that irreversible feeling of life slipping away, unaccounted for.

Inside my head the sun always shines except for the times that we walk arm in arm, tucked underneath an umbrella big enough for two, passing by the shimmering city lights as they reflect in puddles.

Inside my head an hour is always a little longer that we expected.

Inside my head baby plants don’t get eaten by snails, dinner doesn’t get spilt down shirts and shoe laces don’t snap when we should have already been there. Computers operate smoothly and are self-explanatory. That important piece of paper is always exactly where we left it, in the safe place that we always remember.

Inside my head I’ve never punched a wall or kicked a bed.

Inside my head no-one forgets how they really feel, nothing gets submerged by the daily grind. We never hurt those who mean the most to them and consequently there is never a gut twisting moment when a fight looses its energy and you want to throw up, then curl inside yourself and somehow become something else. Something better.

But inside my head there isn’t the tender touch of tentative fingers to my shoulder blade when I’m doing the washing up. There isn’t the squeeze that holds my breath for me. There isn’t the emotional physicality of being. Inside my head the warmth of someone else on my neck never feels quite right.

Inside my head, ultimately, there is just me.

I forget that sometimes.