dystopia
it is a time when you see a bird leaving its flocks observed through the windowsill at sunset. the town’s blasting songs on a Christmas Eve you’re wallowing in the four corners of your room. thinking of how you like your president, of how you disapprove your president's choices, that you dislike the other nations leaders
you became indifferent in wars, in bloods of people who are unknown, because they say that you are young and part of the millennial generation that you at that time weren’t born and don’t know how to recuperate from losing a loved one.
you believed you are weak and not because of what they speak, but because you believe you are.
placing the hot tea in the table, indulging on its earthy taste as you watch shows on the television finding its relevance
on how every killings have become staple, that it does not bother you anymore because it doesn’t affect you. that your empathy becomes apathy and your emotions becomes empty.
of people not celebrating Christmas. on how you say you are patriotic but criticize people of your skin. on how anger makes a cycle of hurting, on how you bequeath hate to others, and how you despise inflicting pain.
it is a time when you see a bird leaving its flocks observed through the windowsill at sunset.
