I have always had a particular talent for making bad decisions. So said my father, who never, in my recollection was wrong, by his own estimation, anyway. And often enough, I had to agree. You're right, that was stupid. And yet, there was always this curiously eloquent whisper from within - 'Stupid, yes, moronic, even, but how could you, being you, have done things any other way?'
After my father passed, other people took up the torch. 'This is stupid, you're going to be hurt, you're going to lose. Think of yourself.'
And yet, when I thought of myself, there was that whisper again, that still, quiet voice. 'I am you. You are me. We shall lose together, and when it is done, we will still be together.'
I tried to kill him with philosophy. I tried to kill him with alcohol. I tried to kill him with insults and beatings, and yet the bruises, the lashes were borne in my own body. This hurt worse than losing. And bothered the whisperer not at all.
'I am meek,' he said. 'My burden is light. And in me you shall find your rest.'