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The Shadow of What Was Lost

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James Islington

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“The air between us feels alive, and the grin that I've been wearing since I spotted her deepens as my cock gets hard at the thought that nothing stands between us now. I could pull her into my arms, slide my hands inside her shirt to feel her soft silky skin while I bury my nose in her neck and whisper how happy I am to see her again.”

“But to me, what the Greeks knew and what these other ancient authors, I think, tapped into is something we’re only now finding words to articulate again, which is that betrayal is the wound that cuts the deepest. You can call it whatever you want, moral distress, moral injury, but really, it’s betrayal — feeling abandoned or betrayed, or betraying oneself and one’s sense of what’s right. And so we had respiratory therapists in some of our early performances during the pandemic, who were saying, “I have 20 patients on respirators in the public hospital in the Bronx, and there’s only me, and I’m left with the guilt of not being able to attend to them all.” That’s an impossible situation. So you call that person a hero, when they’re wrestling with their own sense of betraying their own standards of care and being betrayed by the system that put them in that position, and it could actually hurt them.”

“But as the sun started to rise over the hills, they were off, on the wide-open road, heading for his home. The one he somehow needed to take this tight-assed woman to, along with her scrap of a mangy cat, the one with half an ear missing. 
Because if he hadn’t wrangled her into coming, somehow, this time, in a very weird, unexpected way…
…it wouldn’t have felt as much like his home. At all.”