It felt like a machine manufacturing company, everything in sync; the sounds, the knobs, the screws, everything. My life felt no more special. When I was a child, I was often amazed by the art of mosaic and believed that when I grow old, I hope my life would look like it, broken pieces joining together that form a distinct yet bigger picture. But then why did it look so similar? Why did I feel bad? Why did it look black? In the drive to be accepted and liked by everyone, I lost myself. I was now a mere girl who would do anything that people around said or asked to be. I wore the clothes that people liked, acted like someone else and liked the things that I once found cringing for what? To be accepted. But there came a time when I couldn't fit the mould of the hypothetical box of being 'Perfect'. How should I act, sit, walk, dress or what career should I pursue; I couldn't fit in like every other person next to me did. But how could I? Wasn't I a human before anyone? Wasn't I supposed to be as unique as my flaws and my features? So there I was, having mustered up enough courage and breaking the irrelevant boundaries that were invisible. I started to live, in colour, knowing that everyday is a new day with new experiences, some good, some bad. What keeps me going is the end picture of it, the Mosaic, chaotically abstract, beautiful, irregular but bright, exquisite and colourful.