At the café I order an espresso. I light a cigarette across the street. Sitting on a ledge in the sun I watch people come and go, I listen to conversations I’m not a part of, I smile. If I wasn’t so busy I could rest here a while, I could become a rock, a tree, a pile of ash. Nothing would please me more.
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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