I walk slowly. Out here along this stretch of rue Saint-Jacques the fields of snow on the other side of the rusty chainlink fences are totally untouched. Drifting over old cars and trucks. I stop to take it all in. The abandoned factories. The crumbling homes on rue Saint-Louis. They have the power to remind me of better times.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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