The ides of March.
The word of the day is Betrayal.
Great soaring political plans brought low by our stinking humanity.
My brow is grim on this, the day of mighty Caesar's death.
Even now, I draw breath that he has exhaled.
He must die for what he has done.
I am Brutus.
I am Cain.
I am Judas.
I am Delilah.
The traitor. Mutinous dog. Forever Villified.
Death for treason, they cry, and smack their lips, but none may judge me.
What the traitor owes the betrayed cannot compare to what the betrayed owes the traitor. We were tools. Used unjustly?
What would be trust if it was never betrayed? Without faith or risk? Nothing.
You say our hearts crawl with maggots, but our actions speak no lies. Finding no recourse through our distaste, we spoke with daggers. Let blood heal what pretty words cannot.
In every betrayal, there is a touch of disdain for the victim, that they did not see this coming. There is anger for those close to us, who allowed us to become something we hate. There is an equal measure of happiness and sadness in everything. Balance of energy. Circular.
Gain only through loss
Loss only through gain
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