Switching Scenes...

All this talk of getting old

It's getting me down my love...

They used to be happy words. They really were. But no more...They almost make me sad, depressed to be more precise. What changed?

It has gone for too long now, a fraction short in forever. There is a certain heaviness in the air these days, it's almost like am inhaling solid blocks. I don't choke, how much I want to; I don't want to stop existing, I just feel like putting an end somewhere, somehow...

There are people around, and I don't see nobody. I can listen to them, but I can't hear what they're saying. It makes me sadder. There are strangers shouting in the air, and it bothers me they are not talking to me. Why not me? Why  me? Wasn't I used to remain unaffected earlier? What changed?

It is not that book people told me would depress me. I know, it is not that. I started reading it after I had accustomed myself to breathing the solid blocks of air, after the balance ceased to exist. The Catcher in The Rye. I for one, loved it more than any other book I read recently. For the first time, I couldn't relate to the characters in the book; I indeed connected with the author, it was almost like somebody had read my mind and penned it down. That can't depress me, my mind; or else, I'd have always been depressed in my life, and I was not. Never before, at the least! What changed?

White. It was a peaceful color. Calm, poise, soothing and all such adjectives. But not for me anymore. I am disturbed by its existence around me, it is like something sharp is trying to penetrate my thoughts and disrupt the entirety of my mind. Colors, what do they do to you! I don't remember being swayed by anything as obsolete as colors, white and the rest of them. What changed?

I fail to find the answers; I gave up before I began. I wouldn't ever know what changed, no matter how hard I tried, how loud I questioned or how much I try to change! I sometimes enjoy it, the inability to find the answers; but, there are always more questions than I enjoy.

It is sheer out of desperation I am trying to write, forcing the brain to pop out the words it's trying to contain in itself. I once hoped it would make me feel better, and it does, but I am quite tired of being desperate. 

So, what changed? Well, a lot... and I know what did. But I guess I will just keep them confined inside my head.