I’d like to give up my comforts. Rely on as little as possible. That’s what being on the road has taught me, I need less than I have. As long as there’s coffee, cigarettes, headphones, a place to sit and write, then I’ve got it all. I lamented my return, but location isn’t important, and life is good no matter where I am.
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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