I am struck by a perpetual melancholy.
Somewhere within lies my parents’ unspoken disappointment.
Somewhere within lies my unspoken fury with them.
I do not need belief in divinity to know that I have creators.
I do not need Christianity to know that my creators could not deal with what they made.
Maybe the first step towards killing God is to reject your parents.
They inadvertently made and shaped so much that I would now call me.
Inevitably so much of me is a rejection of who they are. Isn’t that how it always goes?
I am a sketch of everything my parents failed in. An outline of the negative space next to their failed hopes, dreams, ambitions.
I find only true freedom in doing nothing.