The phenomenon of not being comfortable

In your own skin

Is sadly ubiquitous.

At which point of our development

Do so many of us lose

Our child-like curiosity

For the world around us

And transform to become beings consumed with ourselves?

We stare into mirrors and screens

Longer than we gaze across oceans and horizons

Our mirrors only breed crushing disappointment

At what we find in our reflection

Which always seems to fall short of what we imagined ourselves to be.

Satisfaction seems illusive at best.

When did the world shrink

To be small enough to

Revolve around us?

Low self esteem isn’t humility,

It’s convoluted pride:

We stare so long at our feet

We forget to walk with others

Being so full of our dissatisfaction with ourselves

That it leaves little room

For anyone else.


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