Awhile back while living in NYC, I had a summer internship, which required me to take the bus to get there. One morning while waiting for the bus, a little old man approached the stop. He was dress in an beautiful tweed vintage suit. He came over to me and smiled a sad smile. In his hands he held a framed 8 x 10 black and white portrait of a very handsome young man, which appeared to have been taken in the 1930-40s. He spoke and held up the picture. "This is the real me, what you see on the outside is not me, this is me, this is what is inside". He turned and walked away. I sat there stunned. This encounter has haunted me to this day.
I get it though. I feel exactly like that man. I feel the need to carry around a picture from my "glory days". To say I wasn't always the hot mess you see in front of you. I used to be skinny, I used to be organized, I used to be a dancer, I used to be young, I used to be better....and I still feel this way inside even though now one else can see it...can see me, can see the "real" me....I can't even see her anymore.
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