Feb. 1st, 2024

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A couple months ago my father told me about a dream he had. He had taken it as a metaphorical warning.

In it I sat atop the railing of a high balcony. He screamed as loud as he could for me not to jump, praying that his order would reach me and make me come back. His dream understood one thing about me, though. I hate his orders. Egotistical, meaningless. They are like the pleas of a bratty child, desperate for attention and convinced I owe it to him.

So, disobeying him, I jumped.

As he ran to the balcony, looked down and searched for my remains scattered across the ground, he instead found me standing atop an air-conditioner. I bounced up and down, each second letting more of my weight fall onto the flimsy metal box. Violent stomps and jumps covered the sound of his crying voice and at the moment he reached down, trying to offer me a helping hand, the small piece of ground i was granted gave in. My emotionless eyes stared at him while Bruno fell to his death.

At the time, when I heard this, I took it as an annoyance. Just his mind affirming his own fears. After all, that's exactly what nightmares do. But now I feel willing into indulge him. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe God, looking down at our situation, sent him a prophecy so he could change our futures for the better.

Then, I ask this. Why was the warning sent to HIM, if the mistake is MINE? If my deadly sin was disobedience, why would God try to speak to me through him once again? It should know better.

Funnily enough, the death in my father's dream mimics the way I once planned to kill myself. The same balcony he saw me falling from, in the 8th floor of our apartment building, is the one I imagined myself jumping from countless times. It's the one I still imagine myself pushing his son from.

So it wasn't a metaphor after all.

Is it not fair to conclude God wasn't telling me to obey, but instead telling him to stop giving orders; To stop pushing me towards the suicide he claims to fear? Or maybe he's showing the man that his son is already dead and he should accept the child standing before him.

It feels childish to care, really. God doesn't exist, my father's nightmare is, for all I know, just that: a nightmare. But I can't help but bring myself back to the imagery. Jumping onto an air-conditioner. Killing the annoying prick my father created in his mind, who he seems to love more than the actual me. I can't help but wish to take it for myself, to violently reclaim it with the years I've lost trusting that man's delusional judgement. I'm not sure I hate him enough to do so, but I for sure love him enough.

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Update 11/08/2024: I feel like I've stopped loving him enough to possibly hate him. It's kind of sad.

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