I know who I am inside, what I could have become. The road I still walk in my mind.
The life I nearly didn't live at all.
Because no one else heard what my dad said to me while he drove my broken body away from an emergency room, not even curious if I might be bleeding to death inside.
And now, at his long age, he talks to me of his impending death that never comes, as if it were my duty to care.
He and I playing out the final scenes now. He and I universes apart, yet tied together with sorrows. He and I unable to mend a chasm between us while we gently ignore each other's broken hearts.
Inside I'm screaming, and rerunning all the terrible things he taught me about how unnecessary life and love are. How easy it is to kill. How convenient things are when we kill things out of the way of our conscience and compassion. I see it. He doesnt..
God patiently waits while we play out our roles. He frustrated at death taking so long and I impatient with his healthy lingering life.
Sartre could not have more perfectly written this script.
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