I stare at the ceiling looking for motivation. Something’s off. Because I’m not often prone to wallowing in an inspirational void. But I’m burned out. Breathing and eating and living suck me dry, while writing restores the soul. Ah, there, that’s my reason to get out of bed.
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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