Every other Thursday I regurgitate my feelings. But sometimes, I feel as though those words are just being dumped down the drain, like unwanted leftovers, turned into sentimental mush by the garbage disposal. To start a fresh post. You can find new ide.

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I walked across the street, my eyes filled with the discordant array of wavelengths seeking to represent the advent of industrialisation and human ingenuity. My shoulders were bruised from the ruthlessness of the persons walking to their specific destination; their eyes were hollow and narrow. Was I the only one who could see this? The food had stained their faces a grimy orange, a deplorable and cacophono.

As I walk down the road,. I can feel their cold eyes fall upon me. They think that I am one of them. One of those who shattered the bubble,. Which had lasted so long in this society. These people insult me, ridicule me, and more. Than anything, hate me. It does not matter who I am or what I do,. I am only this to them. To them, I was one of the hijackers,. To them I am a terroist.