I pedal along the canal going towards a job thats selling point is it affords me time to write. Short days. Long weekends. More than I could ever need. I never wanted much. I’ve reduced my comforts. Food, clothes, a roof over my head, and the time to type. Always fucking typing.
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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