I always end up where I’m supposed to be; in front of the computer, working away at my novel. A few more pages. All I have to do is live out a fantasy, a lifelong dream. This is the reward of writing, I tell my story any way I please. It gives me control. I laugh. I’m out of it.
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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