Still deciding wether the hand that feeds me was ever a relevant figure in my life at all, it seems that through times of frustration and melancholy my only outlet for enjoyment would be to remove myself from my nest, the people that in theory would show no judgment and exhibit unconditional affection turned out to be my own worst enemy, in order for me to ever be myself, breaking away only seemed natural, and although the inflicted hurt still lingers, I finally gained my ground. Learning to satisfy myself is all that matters to me know, seeking acceptance was a frivolous pursuit in the first place….

There is not much else I can do to mend what is left between my home and my consciousness, the most I can ever do learn how to become me. Otherwise, this entire thought is nothing more than it imposes.


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