Aesopian x

The middleman. I am caught in the middle of crossfire as I desperately run for cover to shield me, realizing quickly that there is none. Both sides drag me out, wanting me to witness the brutal scene, without realizing that ultimately I’m the one who takes a bullet. Each side does a brilliant soliloquy — yes, a soliloquy. I am the sole audience. Saddened, and unable to leave this dramatic play. It’s perhaps a cunning ploy. Their words are as soft as feathers to themselves, but I ultimately hear them, at the opportune time and place. Those words grate like sandpaper against my ears, caustic and hurtful. I am a willing punching bag. The purpose of the punching bag is to allow others to vent their emotions, while it takes blows, absorbing the pain in resolute silence. But it’s just as well if I were unfeeling as a bag full of cloth. Yet I am far from that. It’s just as well if I may alleviate everybody’s pain. But soon the pain will harden to hate. Everyone will carry the hard stones of hate inside of them. Everyone.