I wake. I write. After dinner I go for a walk. The night is alive with people. I miss when this quarter was a ghost town, but it’s pleasant to be among them, to see smiling faces lit up by nothing more than Friday night. I sit on the church steps. I smoke. Small pleasures are my greatest.
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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