The day is a bore until the old thief comes by, tells stories. He blathers on about a family that lost it all. I don’t have a clue. But I nod along like I did with my old man, he spoke of people in the village, his past. I never cared about the subject. I was happy he chose me to listen, same as I am now.
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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