Each day I listened to the building. The street below. And it was different every morning but always the same. People stomping in the corridors. Screaming. Busses passing by. Fights. That was my music. My cadence. All the glorious stuff that life is made from.
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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