I’m revelling in the hustle and bustle of living in a city where everyone is near mad with cabin fever. Outside for the first time in months. Frostbite no longer a concern. I see them feral in their cautious movements over sheets of ice that in better weather are sidewalks. Beasts. Animals. Every single one of us. Springtime in Montréal is truly a beautiful thing.
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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