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My Sense of Place: Personal Journal Reflection

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When I think of my sense of place, I am brought to a feeling that is seemingly unshakable. I don’t seem to fit right in the designated holes. Growing up my family and I moved around so often that I became an introvert. I did not want friends if I was going to never see them again in several months’ time. Having a friend seems to become more of a luxury than a necessity of any sort; they were optional in my life. Another feeling that forces me to hold its ugly green hand is envy. Like hideous costume jewelry adorned with imposturous emeralds and a rusty chain: Such a cheap and easy thing to come by in life. My masquerading monster manifests when people tell me of their childhood homes. These structures of solace as bustling houses that line small streets. As if God spilled his box of crayons that sun was told to melt, so he could mold them into homes. Big, tall, wide, and small- filled with families and memories in the making. That big white house next to that fertile golden cornfield; personifies the bright plight of my souls’ unquenched thirst. I want to be home where hearts glow, beside fireplaces filled with their fill of hearty oak. In my reflection I witness the fleeting moments that created the twist within me. Memories that morphed the sound into silence and quake like insincerity that forever mad the ground beneath my feet unsteady and therefore difficult to walk upon. I rewind the reel of my mind and see them standing there. They seethe and scream from true

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