I had just left a friend's house, and as I made my way back to the Dead Presidents Highway to get home to Chicago. Thoughts about who I had just been with began to roll through my head. I realized that when I spent time with these people I felt angry a lot. I couldn't really say if the cause was the air of stagnant frustration, or the stubborn kind of simmering anger, or the insensitivity, or the drugs, or the.... The litany went on, and on, and on, in its familiar negative spiral. It was like a bad tape I had run so many times, and was beginning to get a kind of perverse satisfaction out of tearing these people apart. Suddenly an idea slammed into this smugly self satisfying explanation. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't really angry at them at all! Perhaps these infractions were really parts of myself I was seeing in these people. Maybe this was something like being your own voyeur and not realizing it. As I looked down that long stream of traffic ahead it dawned on me that ...
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