As I sit I the train, eating my chocolate freckles, I realise something. The people around me don't know me, and I don't know them.
I could be anyone in their eyes. I may be a wondering artist, or a lone soul.
A baker, a freak, a musician or a ghost.
But I'm none of those things, and at the same time all of them.
I shouldn't care what people think of me, but I do. Their words impacted my day, shape it, mould it.
The words of strangers hurt the most. Even now, as I type, an old lady stares at me with distaste.
And it hurts.
YOU ARE READING
Little Ideas for Little Minds
Non-FictionA diary for the random thoughts of my life. Sometimes I will post maybe three of four a day, but you'll never know...
