dear son,

I love you and don't know how to parent you. this paradox causes me consternation: the anxiety of loving something so dynamic as a human being, the anxiety of having caused something to come into physical existence out of love and to keep it moving in love. I find that what I have begun is hard to continue. to be honest there is something magnificent about you, something terrible in me, something terrible in the both of us, something magnificent in the moments when I come home. but to prevent myself from coming to close to the land of sentimentality, where I enjoy staying with you, I withdraw from my fatherly instincts, if only in imagination, that I might further my pursuit to present myself as acceptable to you, that I might actually see your face, for there are times that I look at you, at any human being, and I do not see past the illusion that is your face. There is your clay molded and changing, and yet I do see it and not see you. Maybe I can take this paradox and combine it with the first to arrive at some small amount of wisdom. That I love you and don't know how to love you, that I see you and I don't see you. That I see you but don't know how to see you. There are times that I see you. and to be honest I do see you, and I do know how to see you, but I do not know how to see you all the time. your real countenance, your real being is only a ghost to me, not out of it's nature, but out of my eyes. maybe my eyes are the ghosts. maybe I am the ghost to you. you know yourself quite well my son. you know who you are, and yet how can I be so confident of this. I do not even know myself. I am even a ghost to myself. I catch myself in glimpses like I catch myself in the mirror. at times I linger. other times I am not so prone to. still, when I do linger, I look in criticism, I pick and I scratch and I peel at the skin. do you see yourself in this way. do you feel so inclined to pick at yourself, do you only see your own self occasionally. I wonder at this ghosting. and is the ghost of you that I see the same ghost that you comprehend. (and why do we put question marks at the end of a sentence. the only value that it has is to confirm what we already know. For the question marks only serves to inform the reader that yes you thought this was a question, you knew, and you guessed that it was, and now at the end of a sentence you will find that you were right. I see no value in telling the reader after the fact that they are encountering a question. let the sentence and the words and the syntax do that work. I don't want to punctuate unnecessarily. you know when you encounter a question, don't you.)

I fear that your concept of your ghost is not the same ghost that I see. I'm even more afraid that the glimpses of my own ghost is not authentic, but then again, I think that it must be myself, because what else shines through the eyes so deeply except some sort of truth, or some sort of knowledge. If anything is knowable, it is the ghost that we catch glimpses of. In which case I am certain that we both see the same ghosted you and same ghosted me. 

Son, I want to see you ghost with you. I want you to see it as you score a soccer goal, for you to look back at me, and at that moment I see it too, and we look at your ghost together and we just know that we both saw you, there kicking a ball into the goal or throwing a styrofoam plane into the sky, or having anything akin to a mutual epiphany with me. I think that you are the closest chance I have to that. no friend or coworker will ever come close. perhaps you mother will know it with me, but I'm afraid that her and my ghost are a whole other discussion. I'm afraid that her and my ghost are a little too fused in some areas. a monstrosity of sorts.

(I think since this site is organic I might advise the reader that he or she ought to copy and paste the text if they enjoy it, for it might not be there tomorrow and I am under no obligation to my readers to maintain any text. I am under the obligation to bring forth insight and to cut the fluff, but some may enjoy the fluff. I don't. I want the truth, naked and whole, fluffless, flauting and free.)