The wrath of the father latches on to one’s spine and never lets go. One senses its presence in ones’ shadow, it deems one unworthy of every undertaking, shuns one like a road block from seeing one’s true potential, makes a sacrifice of ones’ life entire, as if, wherever one travels, whatever one dreams, one is bound by the terrible roots of memory to that moment when, with gnashed teeth and fiery eyes, your father took your will and smashed it to bits before your weeping eyes. And yet your father is now old and soft-hearted, and all he wants to do is put his hand on your back. When he does, you feel the wrath flowing painfully down your spine.
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