The pig would never have thought that the one killing it was the person feeding it every day, just like you would never have thought that the person breaking up with you was the one who told you "forever" every day.

You are like a pig, living each day believing that person is your greatest support.
You place all your trust in them, thinking those hands only give you food and warmth, never imagining that those hands might also pick up a knife.
There are two kinds of people in the world: melancholic philosophers and happy pigs.
Philosophers are clear-headed, so they are melancholic; pigs are ignorant, so they are happy.
And you happen to be between these two, a melancholic pig, torn back and forth between awareness and numbness, able to see the knife but unable to run away.
This kind of clarity is more painful than ignorance; ignorant people can still foolishly enjoy a moment of happiness, but those who are aware can't even pretend to be happy.
This is a melancholic pig, waiting for death in awareness, but lacking the courage even to die.