My Writings


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.


Related posts

My Writings

The Innkeeper

My eyes, at the foot of the great mountain, shot an arrow into the heights where its peaks disappear into fine mist. And longed to cli...

My Writings


To live embraced by warmth is wealth. I am rich. I have hot water for a bath. But its luxury feels distant and unfamiliar, still. I am...