Zig and Zag


By Anna Von Reitz

My Twin Flame is a man of sorrows.  He is always the first guy through the door of the burning building, who carries out the unconscious Mom, the baby half-dead from smoke inhalation, and then goes back and rescues the family dog. He's the guy toddling down the road right behind your car wreck who pulls you out seconds before the gas tank blows.  He's the one who finds the abandoned kitten, blows breath back into the drowning victim, puts the tourniquet on the femoral artery, and disarms the bank robber.  It's always him. Always.

It's so predictable, so wildly beyond any kind of statistical probability, that it is a family joke.  He is also the one who gets stuck with all the really, truly awful s^*&t jobs of life that absolutely nobody wants to do or has the strength to do. It always falls on him ---- and its not that I and others don't try to help --- it's because we don't have the strength or we don't have the knowledge.  And there he is.