Your calloused hands will feel rough against your tear stained face. You will breathe in smoke thick with curses and judgement. And yet you will look over your shoulder, sharp and stiff from the weight of endless days, and will find the groans and winces of your back too noisy as the streets below. Do not be discouraged. The ground you are walking upon is more than a stack of due papers or the taste of coffee at 3 am in the morning. The next time it rains, let your fingertips pave way towards the nape of your neck and tie your hair up. Gather what it means to work as shadows over one side—rather, to smile, to listen and to let the sunlight shine on each bead of sweat forming on your forehead. Your rough palms are getting you to where you want to be.
