A few more days and it’s the overnight bus with a coat for a pillow. A hotel that moves, the cheapest way to NYC. I go because it’s exciting, and life is often boring. Get up go to work make dinner go to sleep. I need more. I give myself to something bigger. Writing is how I know the world.
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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