At a small round table in a bistrôt I recall a quote.‘There are two great tragedies of life. The first is not getting what you want. The second is getting it.’ I begged for time to write. Now I miss someone sitting here with me. The waitress brings my turkey sandwich. I appreciate everything thing I have, and lost.
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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