After dinner I go for a walk. The heat is crushing and the streets are desolate for a long weekend. I imagine people in air conditioned living rooms binge watching TV instead of living like we should be. The sky is our ceiling. I pause for a cigarette. I’m alive.
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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