Hours merge into days, days vanish into weeks. I while away a lifetime in mundane indulgence. There is no picture on my wall. Mornings never happen. Afternoons and evenings are spent walking crazy roads, doing nothing. But the mornings never happen. There is hardly anything lacking for a decently comfortable life. Decently comfortable. I am expected to think that way. I expect myself to think that way. But there is not a picture on my wall. This is what solitude does to you. There is a mild fear that these walls might just collapse unto me, taking me along with them. The fear suddenly, on some nights becomes mildly schizophrenic. It is then when I scream for a smoke, nobody understands. When denied I draw random sketches, which I do not understand, and I hide from everybody else lest anyone understood.
Tumbles of my hair, quietly settle on the sides of my face, they have nothing to wait for. They have been trained to be that way. Threatened with dire consequences rather. This is what too much of threatening does, curbing of freewill, you know! My writing doesn't talk to me much, but it passes subtle hints that it isn't here for long. Writing being my alter-ego now, I cannot even begin to fathom the void which its absence will leave behind in my already hollow life. Because this mundane indulgence wouldn't last long I know, you know.
There is not a picture on the wall. Nobody has noticed, I have turned awry from inside, maybe. And I am not screaming for help either. I have trained myself enough for that. These walls, I have created around me are too sturdy, they would collapse on me convincing me of my schizophrenic fear, rather than giving in to anything external. Anything at all. It's been a long time. Scary long. But there's even longer to go. Scarier, huh!
Will I find a reason to my life, other than me? The lights in this room are all turned off. The song that's playing is ironically called 'Save Me'