Monday, December 11, 2006

letters from a broken son

Dear Pa,

You've never understood me, just as what you always insist that I never understood you. I do. But you may never have the heart to see that. Even if you may not believe me, as I always say, I have passed that stage of blame and remorse. Though you always insist how childish, immature and irresponsible I am. I never get to see that point. I have accepted the fact that you may have to spend your lifetime with someone who nearly killed you. Even if you may not believe me, I tried my damn best to get along. There are just irreconcilable differences that you insist on reconciling.

I never take pride that I'm earning a bit more than you do. I never intended to bring myself the subject of your constant ire because of this. Even if you may never believe me, and even if it may show that I do not, I want to help this family, and I want to see us together. Please see it in your heart, that despite the many fights and misunderstanding, I have stayed and never left this family. It may never be the same but we're family, and it counts.

I'm sorry I raised my voiced when we fight. I'm sorry if I hurt you. If someday I will go away, please understand me. I'm your son, and I'm not perfect. I make mistakes, and even if you may not believe me, I continue to look up to you as a father.

*****

Dear Ma,

I fear that I may have failed my promise. Remember when you were in your deathbed, you told me to take care of my brother and sister when you're gone? Now that we're in the midst of hopelessness, I can't even find their hands and reached out to them. Their hearts have grown cold. I cannot help them as much as I can.

But I hope you understand me. I know you understand the situation. It's not my fault Ma. You left us, and I was too young to understand why such terrible things happen to good people. I know that if you're here, you could always pull our family together. I refused to dwell on this painful past, but the thought of you makes my heart ache. Perhaps God knows better.

I just hope I can see it through. And I wish you were here.
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Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting