Slowly I smoke enjoying the feeling in the air. The city is typically loud. There’s always a racket. Though during a winter storm it’s different, a thick blanket covers everything, dampening all sound. It’s calm. And there’s a holiness about fresh snow that can’t be said of rain.
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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