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BuiltI am built of dreams, my familys and my own. The criticism of those who become passerby, and a simple belief in reality; that I exist.There are pages of my penmanship brimming with disdain for previous words; there is hope for constant change, for evolution of sorts within these words. To say that one may be ruled by emotion would be an easy misconception. Unimpressive and insecure, the walls of my mind convulse and the argument of an obsessive introspection arises.My senses hold my love of life.I am made of music. That lilting melody that curls around my being, colours of notes untangle themselves and caress me lovingly.
Introversion.It wasnt until I was fifteen I realised licking things didnt make them better.Fix the whatnot.Seems gross now.I was odd.I suppose.I laughed a lot, said stupid sentences.Was made fun of, though in good humour.I never minded.In truth I hated being that silly girl, the one who had it good(doesnt go to school , how lucky), the one who lived in her own childish bubble. (And by childish I mean innocent and by innocent I mean not-knowing-not-caring)Well.My bubble wasnt that great.Carefree was not present.I'd act amusingly idiotic all evening and come home unhappy that Id lost that respect. Respect that I thought I might have deserved, that I might have earned throughout my life.Id always heard middle school was awful; kids were arrogant, insecure, hurtful. Oh, those hormonal days.I didnt hate it though, I had good friends.But half of seventh grade was all I got.No more.No more school, no