Father, there is an ocean between us. Forgive me, father, for I have failed you. To drink that ocean so that I can walk across its thorny bed, and ride beside your mind. Perhaps, in a world better than ours, that is not necessary. Perhaps there exists a place where father and son can split the ocean together, just to meet in the middle.
And yet, I know that you are my Father, I know it in my bones. None can take your place, you are singular, a source of all rivers of the Great Masculine. Your cold peace is foreign to me, your truths – unfamiliar, alien. To me your code of being is unintelligible, but I accept it.
Strange to hear myself singing your songs. I do not even know who you are. In my dreams, as a child, there was a man without a face who I recognized as my father. He had come to save me. He had come to take me along on his journey. I never met him in my waking days.
The story of our lives intertwined is short, but profound. I heard Silence louder than music. I felt a distance, as if the thread that bound us was stretched to the point of tearing and my being shook in agony.
I was to be the center of your universe. I remember your hands, large and warm, beacons of power. That strength was seized from me. Great Injustice. Great Betrayal. A necessity.
My father died in the war, in the struggle against himself. And yet he lives and breathes.
My Father will not be force-fed. My Father does not bend. My Father does not break.
Nor do I.