I am the Writer, the carver of time
What is it about fatherhood that makes me so envious and spiteful, yet in the same breath laugh on all those who have one? Why do I crave it and in the same motion swat it away? What is that connection I feel. Not to the one whom I came from. I have no desire, no connection. Yet when I see others, I see this electricity that attaches one to two, the first and then the second. Anywhere in a room, anywhere in the world this electricity can stretch to. I have that, but no receiver.