With a dull squeegee I push ink through a screen. My hands are stiff. But physical labour is good for the soul and I lose my body in repetition. I escape to my mind where I’m already in my old wooden office chair. My back is hunched. The keys are firing. In this way my labour is fulfilling. I’m free.
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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