I dream often about fighting my father. Years and years of swinging at his toothless, arrogant, narcissist's face. The impact coming without force, and in slow-motion. The rage in my sleep doesn't score on the decibels, but it's triple digits on the wattage. Over and over, the scenario is always different. Which means it's always the same. Waking up alone, an estranged orphan. Years of practice, and l'esprit de l'escalier whispering calloused knuckles. Like Jack's Deep-Seated Furor, I'll never have a chance to fight my parent. And it will have been worth it.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"....I hate you"
"Hah, hah. I know. I know."
9:48 p.m. - 2019-12-25
Recent entries:
Thanking the Pandemonium - 2020-11-26
Simplicity of Sometimes - 2020-11-25
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Red Blue Green Purple - 2020-11-11
Too Young to Descend - 2020-11-11
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