For now I am living in parallel with that life and watching it run along side me as I live mine. I'm happy because I know it's not going anywhere, and the the two will align when I have done all the things I need to do in this life. I need to stay here for my friends, family and education. The more control I gain over my life, the more I can edge towards the one I want. It can be frustrating and unfulfilling because I want more, or to be more specific I want less. My other life comes through this one in the form of clothing; tightly woven materials. Gingham, linens and thick leather that will last forever. It comes out in music; fret buzz, feedback, audible grain that sparkles in-between words, the crackle of the needle. Brief moments that simulate the real thing.
My dad and I are very similar, but the one thing that differentiates us like nothing else is his realism and my idealism. When I look at my dad and how he sees the world, what he finds essential to his life to be happy, I don't understand it at all. It's probably my age and the fact I haven't been crushed like him, I'm not as scared of life as he is. He tells me he agrees with the greek belief that hope is extricably linked to suffering, how it breeds lack of control. But what good is that? It's just a lazy way of protecting yourself.
But for someone that has been alone for so long I can't be surprised that he doesn't understand my hope. My hope in gingham and fret buzz. Because the essence of all of these things is human touch. Making it known that their voices haven't been lost to overproduction, that imperfection is what makes you a person, and to pretend otherwise would be fucking ridiculous.