Depression has taken my life away

Free-Photos @ Pixabay

“Oh, you like rock music? What do you think of Slayer?”, 
you ask, 
harmlessly trying to engage in a conversation 
about their most impressive tunes
and how they suck live compared to Machine Head.

Forrest Gump is such a masterpiece, isn’t it?”, 
you ask, 
remembering all the powerful scenes 
you have played in your head 
over a thousand times.

“What was your favourite book in your teenage years?”, 
you ask, 
eagerly expecting me to tell you 
about that novel I read twenty three times 
when I was seventeen.

“Never seen you before! Where do you usually hang out?”, 
you ask, 
hoping to discover some kind of underground pub 
where I spend all my Saturday nights in
but you’ve never even heard about.

“Love sucks, doesn’t it?”,
you ask,
waiting for all the details
of my last failed relationship
and how I was hurt for more than four months.

“You haven’t travelled much, have you?”, 
you ask, 
picturing a speech in your mind
about how fucked up the economy is
and how I can’t spend more than necessary.

“Where do you work at?”,
you ask,
because you swore you saw me
last Monday afternoon
coming back stressed from my shit of a job.

A sigh comes from my mouth, 
looking for the nearest exit 
that can relieve me from this pain.

“What have you done for the past twelve years, then?”, 
you question,
not even trying to disguise your perplexity.

“Being depressed”, 
I answer,
not expecting you to understand.

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