I must recall what I want forget, funnel it into my art, take what destroyed me and use it to rebuild. Look at nature. Nothing new grows without the old dying. This is peaceful, a comfort, because from the destruction of my self another will bloom. Maybe I’ll be beautiful.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment