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the lost son who doesn't want to be found

Walking down a winding path paved with eggshells.

Freedom is a low hanging fruit just out of reach.

The sky eats up light and the fog tries to suffocate me, blanketing the path and settling on the tree.

My feet move forward at a grinding pace. My body is young and my mind Is old, saturated with experiences I have yet to process.

The fog is gravity now, pulling me to the earth, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, promises of love and protection, safety that compromises freedom, comfort that throws away exploration.

The only opening I see through the fog is that same path paved with eggshells, that tree with low hanging fruit getting further and further away.

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