From the mind of a wounded …

How does it feel when your hands have just been run over by a truck? It’s like dwelling in a weird world between pain and numbness. But you don’t know yet if your hands are safe. You’re too afraid to look at them. You fear they are mutilated- probably blood is oozing out relentlessly, turning the white bed-sheet pink. And you’re trying to look from the corner of your blurring eyes if it actually is what you think!

Now, this is what you told the “truth-seekers”- You remember having seen the truck approaching you. You stood still smiling because you thought it would stop- you thought it belonged to a very good friend. But it hit you hard, leaving you in a stupor. You still don’t know if it was your friend. You know, in any case, that he resembled your friend greatly but that you’d by no means want to believe that it was your friend.

So what is it that makes you sad? Is it the fact that you are in a state of distress and a friend is the reason? Is it because despite knowing for sure that he was your friend, you stood there, wanting to be crushed under the wheels of his truck because you had once wronged him and his benevolence reminded you even more of your pathetic actions, and you just wanted an excuse to end the friendship to get rid of being bled internally every day?

The point is: Whoever is wrong, whatever aggrieves you- you have injured your hands.

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