It's easy to judge yourself by society's standards, where a couple of actions dictate your hair color, but I suppose that life's not like that.
I'd like to think that I was understanding, good ten times out of ten but I wasn't, mainly because on at least few occasions it became about me too.
I hate myself for that. Fair or unfair, I hate myself so badly I wish that cold, hurt, staring version of me could just be dead.
Perhaps that's the nature of trauma: more like a disease than an actual injury. It eats away at you inside, right in your heart, and anyone you let in there is bound to pick up themselves eventually. It's unavoidable.
You drop a big enough rock into a lake and it doesn't matter how wide it is- eventually the banks that hold all the water will feel the vibration as well. And start to erode...
