In monochrome

Someone said I should write...a little more readable, minus all those continuities...sentences, grammar driven. I am beyond repair, I am over writing to be read, reminds me of work. Work.. none now.
There's nothing predictable, the things you do, the results and whatever comes in between.
I love my home, I love the way it looks, I love how it screams out ME!! from every nook of it. I hate unlocking doors, doors that open into darkness and hardly a world beyond. I love noise, music sometimes sounds like a blurr, early after a sleepless night when you lie close to a speaker, maybe its just my disorientation.
There's nothing on my mind, except the thought of the next day, the new morning/ afternoon, the after-taste of the night and a tingling pain.
I can't define my needs, I've spent days in yonder, I've cried over and over in shock for someone I barely knew but can't ever forget.
I've walked out of a show coz I couldn't contain my tears.
Will I ever stop associating people with the places I see everyday, the clothes I wear, the sounds I hear? The distinct smell?
I want to write more often, I am sleepless enough. I want to sleep, but that's another thing.
The course of my life might forever change with the things I do today, now. I refuse to take notice. There's a passivness, in my voice. A detachment, it's a part of me. Nothing seems to deserve reaction. Its a world in monochrome, a life in black and white as he put it. Clear lines, hazy at the edges yet devoid of any bursts of colour that evoke reaction.
Days and nights are passing, quick, I want them to be fuller, fuller so I don't lose them so soon.