Day before yesterday i was having some coffee at the best cafè in town, and an olg man came in, ordered 3 coffees to go, chatted a little with the attendants, and left. He was an old, businesslike, conceited little old man. He hauled around the heavy arrogance of a fake power, a power that (who knows) he might even have but is still fake in that it is more important to show it than to use it. The weight of a lifetime of morality and harshness bogged him down (and he likely took it as raising him above the chaff). The lightness of his thin frail bones shone him a mysterious beauty (and he likely took it for his undoing). He reminded me of my father, with all the ambiguity this image had to me, with all the pain that this memory entails. And the memory of my father is still the memory of not being good enough, not being accepted, being left behind and him giving up on me. And this memory is also my shyness, this abandonment the reason i don’t feel worthy of love, the reason i don’t pursue my desires, that my passion always needs to be justified and rationalized. This is the broken sword of legends. And it is pain.
With tear in my eyes i post this on facebuk, and 16 random people “like” it!