Empty apartment talking to myself. Have I lost it? I hope so. Only a madman would bother with all this self examination, staring within. I mock the life of a monk. I’m nothing but a peasant. I’ll come out of this same as all the others. I write until I have nothing left to say.
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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