Perhaps this is normal. I have to be.
I think of my father a lot. So much it almost seems wrong.
It makes me sad. It makes me weary. Although there are some good memories as well.
I look into the mirror and I see him. Staring at me.
I imagine it has to do with the fact that my first memories of him were at my current age.
He must have been right around 37-38. He was 31 when I first exploded on the scene.
I see him. Every day. As a young man. As me.
I feel this incredible amount of joy at seeing him as I remember him. Innocent and untouchable to my little eyes.
Every piece I want to write revolves around him and his influence, both the good and bad.
So, this will likely only the first on my memories and how they have shaped me.
