I eat dinner. I go for a walk as a breeze cools down the city. A perfect night. Better spent around a campfire with old friends. Laughter and beer and talk of old times, new times, what we thought would happen, what actually did. Hard to believe I ever wrote a word. Tonight I watch my borough from a stoop.
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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