In the metro a grey-haired drifter sits cross-legged. He waves an old ten dollar bill like a flag. His smile is so wide it cuts his face in half and fills me with hope. If he can find joy at the bottom of this escalator we all have a chance. I guiltily shrug as I pass. My pockets are empty.
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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