Writing With Pictures

On Fridays, I would like to take an instruction break and do some style training per my blogrollees at Fresh Ink. This is where we take a picture and describe it. Please feel free to join in with insights by adding to the story or starting your own. Either way, let’s see that freestyle writing flow!
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My days are running together. I can barely remember anything that happened yesterday, and every time I try, it’s like my thoughts are not…my thoughts.

My watch says it’s the fifteenth of September, but for some reason there are pumpkins and Christmas decorations on my doorstep. My doorstep! I don’t even like the holidays! At least I don’t think I do.

What’s happening to me? I bought this house for so many reasons, but the thing that pushed me over the edge was the crimson door. Red usually meant passion, or fire, or anger, but not for me. I liked it because it was different. I always wanted to be different. Not myself, but somebody else. But now this “different” doorway seemed to be affecting me somehow. It’s like whenever I walk inside, I become another person.

Sure, I hated my life, or maybe I think I did. I can barely remember now. My head is always so clouded by all these other people’s thoughts. Was this what I had to suffer? Being someone else every day for the rest of my life? This was worse than being who I was. At least I think it is. I just don’t know anymore.