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A part of me wants to believe that I’m above it all – a hopeful part. That somehow I don’t need the things my body tells me I do.

Mostly because I think that they hold me back.

Prevent me from becoming the person I envision myself to be.

There is a part of me that wants to believe for the sake of my own sanity – a confused part. That somehow I am stronger than my weakness.

For I have been made to believe that my body is my weakness.

That its momentary yearnings are the fickle cries of an untrained soul.

And so I find myself believing in a part of me that wants to keep fighting – a tired part. Trusting that individual effort will win out in the end.

It’s funny, I think, to think that I am more than what I see in the mirror.

Especially when I stare deep into the eyes of that other person staring back.

Tell him that he can get up and keep moving. Despite the constant doubt I have in his ability to do that which is necessary to be more than he already is.

Because for some reason, I don’t think that he’s enough.

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