I’m not sure how I got here. But it all worked out. This is where I saw myself twenty years ago, hunched over and typing, calling myself a writer. Which is scary. Because the visions I have of my future are grim. If I make it another two decades, I’ll be on the gutter
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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