If I were a man, like my father, then I would be already free. Remembered only in photograph. Not sheltered in unconscious life. Free with dust and branes. It is long. It is brief. We quickly fill the passing time with events. Some are tragic with emptiness, some captured, some not. We become illegitimate and naked, void of all moral imagination. Nothing left of my father now. Poisoned by life. Nothing left but these photographs. We are the spawn of history, by our own doing. Abraham’s three sons were killers, lovers. No creator, no preserver, just the destroyer. No noble truths remain. No rights for humans. This is life on earth. It is all we know. Supreme in honest reality. Lives of billions built on faith. Unadmitted science. It is all we have. This strange journey began at the edge of winter. There was a denial of kisses. There was exquisite coldness. There is life, stark and frank, filled with cannibals of the land. The weak and innocent, still brutalized. Still hesitation in defense. No admittance of obligation. We have become imprisoned by this terrible beauty of life on earth.
We forge the chains we wear in life – Charles Dickens