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The same insults, the same horror, the same hatred; it was as if I was being forced to watch an old, horrible movie for a second time.
My life was like reruns on television, except that each time the events were slightly different and each time I could bear it less.
That drastic change was comical. What a strange world it was. Neither its ire nor its kindness had any substance.
People love creating heroes. They make someone big so that they can hide behind him, so that he will speak for them, so that in case of danger he will be their shield, suffer their punishments and give them time to escape.
Or was I always part of the destiny that ruled the lives of the men in my life, all of whom somehow sacrificed me at the altar of their beliefs and objectives?
