Numbers

For the poet whose poetry we could never read.

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After all these years dad, I wonder what life had been, had you allowed me to take a different path.

I don’t know why dad but these ornamented windows and oak doors make me feel nothing but claustrophobic.

The chandeliers seem to stare at me with angry eyes questioning me the very reason of my existence and I have no answer dad. I do not know if it’s just in my head but I really feel that these wires are strangling me.

I have started shuddering in my own house, suddenly started being afraid of everything around me. I am tired dad, tired of trying and failing and trying.

These numbers seem to fade in a black hole now, dragging me with them, pulling me by the hair, rupturing my veins, numbing the pain. 

The face in the rear view looks so ugly dad, I can’t seem to look at it anymore. My heart is pounding fast dad, pleading to be resucitated but there is no one here.

My soul is slowly abandoning me, I am fading day by day into a dark shadow, I don’t know what is more important, my being or these numbers.

     But I promise you dad, I will never show you this letter and work again tomorrow.

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