He’s got more white in his beard than I do mine. Torn jacket and shoes worn down to the soles. When the light turns red I cross, headed to work, a quest for the finer things like rent. He shuffles into halted traffic knocking on windows, hoping for alms. I don’t say a word but I wish him well.
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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