"When is it ever the right time for anything? When is it ever just about the music?" I think to myself as the band that I had come to see becomes inaudible background noises to the voices of my own making. "It's what you want, not what you need."As much time as I spend singing to myself in silence in grey - hazy days, any urge to open myself up to people lasts only momentary. The mask slips back up faster than the voices can end their sentences. That's how it always is! I walk past my days in auto pilot, leaving but a whisper behind. I've grown used to it over the years! Stand in line. Say "Good morning" to people at work.Talk about wine, **** and women on rooftops of cold abandoned houses. Discuss art, music and poetry with people whose faces resemble my mask. You keep walking because that's what everyone else is doing. There are occasional outbursts of static excitement that I try to hold one to. But my fingers are always a little too big to get a good grip. It's like trying to watch your favorite TV show with a weak signal. My days become indistinguishable. Every day is the same. Even when you get what you want, you're not satisfied. I never liked the word"numb" but I don’t think that there's a better word for the way I mostly feel. I often find myself walking on social eggshells, pushing myself closer and closer to the boundaries I know I shouldn’t cross. It's cold outside and I need to get home.