Before the clock gives permission I pack up. I take my pay and tell the boss I’ll see him next week. No work Monday he says. I smile. Twenty-four extra hours to celebrate a life spent pursuing food and shelter. Millennia pass and nothing changes. The sun is warm on my face.
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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