I translated the message

using Google and it

said something about

film actors. I think

someone has hacked

my phone, my father says,

his voice bubbling with

unhealthy excitement,

a rush of madness, making

him see ghouls and

eyes on the ceiling;

evil, disfigured succubi

and dirt and mud.

I’m angry that he’s burdening

me with this. I want to

scream, Haven’t you troubled

me enough? You wrecked two

lives with your delusions.

Deciding that X is A on a whim,

or letting caprice make you

take it out on poor Y while

we looked on, scared, scarred

and motionless.

My load’s already cumbersome,

and I want to jettison

the past, forget the future,

and hold the present,

and let it carry me to

another dimension

with each ticking second.

I don’t want an overarching

theme of paranoia

changing the tone of

the pages of my life.

I guess, both

father and I approach

things in the same way,

and similarity breeds contempt.

And so I listen, masking disgust,

but not hiding it enough to

feign concern. I don’t care

about the madman who refused

to seek help and declared

with an oracle’s firm tone that

he’s not insane, but I care enough

to pray that I don’t end up

like him, perceiving my shadow

as an imposter, hating the angles

at which the walls

meet each other,

slapping myself to justify

that I’m also hurting while

two helpless souls look

on, praying I’d disappear.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

12 responses to “Cumbersome”

  1. Maybe, what’s, really upsetting you, is how you don’t want to, turn out like your own father, but you see the resemblance of him in you, become more apparent, as you grow, older.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. True. There are some resemblances, I’ll agree. But I’ve sought help for my issues unlike him. Though the meds make me a zombie, they keep me somewhat stable, and so, I move forward slowly.


  2. I love the place in which you write from. You’re such a talented and unique soul. Incredible writing sweet friend ❤

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much Jennifer ❤️ You always leave the kindest comments.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. It’s really hard on all of you. Wish there was something I could do. I think that you’re a very different person from your father, judging from your descriptions of him.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yeah it is, but that’s life I guess. We’re learning to live with the consequences of his madness and move on. I think I’m similar in many ways to my father, but different in a lot of ways too.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. I know someone is a great writer when I can’t distinguish between fiction and reality. Great stuff!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you. Some of this post is true. A lot of it actually. Some is hyperbole. I’m glad you liked it though. This is one of my more serious, personal posts.

      Liked by 1 person

  5. A nightmarish situation. I suppose we are all the sum of both genes and environment. It sounds like a difficult place to be in. I wish you well.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It definitely is. I mean, I did seek help for my condition, and I’ve been on meds for 11 years. They make me a zombie, but they keep me stable to a large extent. My dad, on the other hand, refuses to, even after a few breakdowns. I’m always worried that I might end up like him, angry and paranoid. But I guess where there’s insight, there’s hope. Thank you for your comment.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Oh, I hope you can find a happy medium with your meds. It does sounds like you have more insight–and desire–so you won’t end up like your father. I wish you the best.

        Liked by 1 person

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About Me

Ordinary Person is a guy who likes to write. He writes fiction, essays, poems and other stuff.


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