I seem to have a thing for calling people (not the same people!) “assassins”. Uh, oh. Time for therapy.
I won’t bore you with the dream that inspired this; but only deliver the message.
It takes upper-case Time to process the hurt caused by others, friends, considered close, to whom one has only ever showed kindness.
My profession provides the benefit of helping others on a daily basis which is paradoxically the most self-healing thing in the world.
And then Time, one day, fulfills its own role whereby, seemingly suddenly, all is lifted from you and you realize…
There is no point in caring for the hurtful—the assassins—but still have compassion as they must live with themselves.
For the record: I don’t consider you an assassin. But you have been willingly susceptible, complicit, an accomplice, to them.
The truth is always revealed, too, in Time.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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