Saturday, June 15, 2019

In the past, I've talked of my idols and role models, in the way they shaped my persona, in the way they influenced my life. In those instances, I never mentioned my dad, a thing that might've been strange for some of you and normal to others. But then again, I never do mention my dad. The reason I do this or don't do this – is because I feel somewhat protective of the idea of him and how he is perceived. From many stories people have told me about him and some he told my sister and me, himself, I have a general concept of how he was in his younger years, but as I didn't actually know him back then, I always found it hard to describe him. 

And then one day... I came across these pictures, and just like that, I didn't need to explain how he was. These images seemed to me, to be akin to the old pictures Dennis Stock took of James Dean, pictures so true to the character of who he was as a person, that there was no longer a reason to explain anything about him. You just had to look at the photographs.

To me, it is always so exciting to discover some photos or to hear new stories about him, even though I know they're from before I met him – or rather he met me – it helps me to fill some gaps in his persona... it helps me to get more clear answers from the imaginary conversations I sometimes have with him, it helps me to feel him more present, it helps me to not miss him as much. 

You might think I feel him as an afterimage, as a visage of some kind, but no, it is more like a writer I adore, giving me advice in every quote, in every paragraph, in every line. I look for more of his books as to read something new from him but never neglecting what I've already read for that's why I adore him. 

Funny enough he was actually a writer as well... and I can really imagine him being so, sailing around the world, discovering new locations, making small notes as he went along... Oh, how romantic it all must've been, how grand and exciting. 

I'm older now than my father was when those pictures where taken, and there will come a time when I'll be older than he was when he passed. But for now, I just move forward, not threading in his steps as one would assume, because for better or worse, following behind him was never an option. Instead, I walk on my own road, and at times we end up walking next to each other, just for long enough to know where we've been and where we might be going, until we drift onto our own paths once more, while being always in each other's mind.

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