I wave down the bus in the center of rue Notre-Dame. Stepping on I fold my hands in prayer and bow to the driver. Humble myself, I’m smaller than everything. In a folding seat designed to accommodate wheelchairs I drop down. People stare at screens, headphones in their ears, it’s all an illusion.
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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