i listen in horror to the stories of my achachan relayed by those who didn't have their vision clouded by childhood. the horrors come from not the stories themselves but from patterns. if b is like a then c must also be like b. my achachan never knew how to show love. my dad bombarded us with affection. my achachan was a miser. my dad has always been extravagant. my father's greatest fear is being like his father and he takes comfort in these deliberate differences. his father made him walk 5 kms to his college. my father drops me and picks me up from driving classes every day. i take comfort in these differences too. its not the same, i tell myself. they're not the same. yet, the panic in my lungs won't disappear. this feeling of watching a play behind a glass wall still persists. there's that meme from euphoria, is this fucking play about us? that's how I feel listening to these stories. characters replaced by only their younger versions better at faking normalcy than their forerunners. the warfare more psychological than physical. that play has ended, curtains pulled down forcibly by death. how will this one end? i wish my dad would win against what he has inherited but has anyone ever? my dad tries so hard not to be like his father and i try so hard not to be like my father. i fight back just like my dad did. my dad has always been extravagant. i have always been a miser. my dad is rude to waiters. i try to be extra nice to waiters.
i try to be malleable. soft. i try to be water. i try to take the shape of where i am. patterns patterns patterns. but sometimes i can feel this inheritance inside me, bubbling, bidding its time, waiting to come out and i can only watch in horror.
