Everything I do is rushed. I work harder than necessary and still fall behind. Though being in a fugue is good for the passage of time. Before I know it I’m running out the door. Rain drops wash my face. I’m reborn.
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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