sometimes i feel like im almost done

i think what makes difficult relationships so difficult is that they are, by nature, unpredictable and thus near impossible to defend yourself within. today my mother came by my apartment to deliver me fresh produce from the market as well as a kilo of crackling roast pork. this act of kindness, in its unpredictability, is in of itself a sort of betrayal, and i do not know how to defend myself against it.

we talk for a bit. i’m leaving for america in a few weeks, and i don’t want her to worry - so i dont tell her and she doesn’t. this withholding is a sort of betrayal too.

it’s been seven years since i moved out of home, and for seven years i’ve been trying to figure out how to include my mother in my life. she’s a difficult, talkative person. she goes around in erratic circles and makes me cry like no one else can. i didn’t realise it would be so difficult to write about her, thinking on it now i realise i’d never done it before. i’ve spent years talking, writing, thinking about my father, straightening out a story because the dead are easy to keep - they do not talk back or continue to twist knives, and the veil between worlds keeps you at arms length squinting through it’s scalloped trim. in this way the dead are the ideal selfless characters for our selfish living, yes, to love the dead and loathe the living is a fools errand, a one person game of ti-tac-toe; i always win, i always lose, i always decide.

it is a short life and a long death, but now im just writing about my father again.