Father, my own.

Oh, the fathers! I don’t know about the rest of the world, but in my corner of the place, the story is something unique, at least feels tome. Fathers drive the lives of their children—or at least, they try to. At its best, this helps sons set out in life on a good footing, a silver spoon in the mouth, so to speak. But the power they have built carries an inherent weakness—at least to them—the world will not remain the same as it did during their life time and their sons will never measure up.

I can’t speak for others, only for myself. He—my pops—has acquired a kind of deity-like status among some of our family members, most of whom are part of our regular social circle. Where does that leave me? Like always, with choices—mostly two. I can either be the son of God or the angel that has fallen, the devil who will never cast a larger shadow than his father or the son who will have rights to the power of the father. One of them has happened to me. Daily, from the million of things I do, that is what I am regularly reminded of—a recurring nightmare, if you will.

Now, this is healthy if I lived according to what they thought or wished for me—“they” meaning everyone who believes they have a right to an opinion on my life, or at least, whose words I get to hear. I, however, am a different matter altogether. I have always done what I thought was best for me in the moment. I’ve lived like that for long now. I cannot think of a single thing I am sure of, five years down the line what will be certain there, how could one ever know ? They want me to figure out the entirety of it now, I'd rather walk alone on lifelong path to solace.

What I do—with the feeble time that has been given to me ? Now what I do is repeat each day as if it is a new one. I don't know how to get your mind around that. I have lived, and I will live well and most of all I would like to keep living.