Why is that people in the greatest need of compassion are those whom we least want bestow it upon?

The people who arouse it most easily are the cute yet plucky heroes who are so busy they don't even have time to register that our compassion before they bustle off to help those who...
need compassion the most, the unloved children turned into unlovable adults, with vocal chords grown into organ pipes to blast out praises and grievances in alternate breathes.

It's hard to look thirty odd years into the past to see the ungainly, wistful child that grew into this awkward, demanding adult.

Harder to speak to the haunting refrain of loneliness beneath the abrasive, bitter melody.

Hardest to wrestle against twenty odd years of habit, knowing that the mess we clean up today, they put right back again tomorrow.

So how do we bear to go back and help them again?

We don't do it succeed, that's beyond our control, it's up to them. We do it because we can't bear to be the reason why they don't.