I could never escape the shadow of my father.
The Greatest. The Best.
How would I measure up? How could I measure up to the perfection of a legend?
I deserted the haven of my father to strike out on my into the world. The illusion was broken. I couldn’t live under his flawed dominion any longer.
So I left. But I could never escape.
He lived in every shadow, watched from every pinnacle, hovered over my soul with the kind of incidental and abstract care of duty.
Far away was never far enough.
I kept to my own corner, stayed in my world and made this space my home. And yet, they couldn’t see me. They only saw him.
Son of my father. They could never see beyond his mask and cowl imprinted in my features.
The greatest. The best…
My phone rang, shrill, in the night. I crouched on my perch and gaze at the city. Not my city, no, none of it would ever be mine.
I accepted the call. Bluetooth picked up the familiar rasp and echo of the distant streets, the creak of gloves, and the flap of cloth in the wind. A gruff,voice speaks.
“Nightwing, come in!”
Postword: A fun article I found while hunting for pics-http://www.fortressofsolitude.co.za/2016/06/batman-as-a-father/
Criticism doesn’t do anything but breed resentment and demoralization. Rather than criticize, consider the power of gentle reminders and recognition of the good actions taken. The right decisions made and executed.
Many weeks ago:
“Oh my gosh! Did you hear about Orlando?” my friend asked as I slurped my vanilla-bean frappaccino.
“What, the weather? Yeah, the hurricanes are bad in FL right now…”
“No, the shooting! The one at the nightclub.”She shook her phone at my puzzled expression.
“What?! What shooting?”
“Yeah, there are 50 dead and 53 wounded! Some Muslim guy walked in and shot a bunch of people in a gay nightclub. They’re calling it the worst shooting session to date.”
I blinked. “What?!!”
How did I not know?
If we were drinking coffee together…
I’d probably be ranting and raving about the state of life. You might roll your eyes as I vent about the strange and terrible world we live in, that death is widespread and refugees have no refugee. That ISIS isn’t just a fun name from Archer (which they did change, fyi) or from Egyptian mythology. That bombs are still strapped to children, that war is fought against concepts and fear -intangible threats we neither see nor can seize, so how then can we claim victory? You may stop pretending that you aren’t staring at your watch as I gripe over the fact that the world doesn’t care -that we’d rather kill, destroy, extinct, decimate, and burn it all down around us because… it doesn’t matter, there’s another planet just like Earth that we can fuck up after this!
The reason why we don’t connect, is because I don’t live in your world. I don’t like your world, and I refuse to let you drag me into your reality.
My reality is carefully structured, and designed for maximum efficiency and optimal enjoyment of my life. The foundation was laid over many years and is still in the process of creation. And I like my universe, just the way it is. If I don’t, I adjust it, tweak the settings, increase some levels and reduce others.
I like some of the realities from movies and tv shows. The good ones are constructed with care, the writer pens the words and the directors paint the scene. The actors assume the identities and the soundtrack immerses the second and third senses. Suspension of belief convinces the remaining senses, and the world pulls me into the most crazy puzzles of human motivation and expectations.
If realities were cardboard boxes containing projectors, biographies are the equivalent of someone inviting me into their cardboard box, and connecting to mine. We all own boxes that we carry and share, in overlapping spheres of realities.
Your box is full of pain and loss, of conspiracy and emotion. Your projector replays the moments lost, caresses and symbols of meaning and portent. The lens always stares into yesterday and what could have been, of flowers and sunshine, of thunder and rage. Cardboard soaked in sweat and fog from a thousand mutterings and sighs, condensation dripping down the walls in moist claustrophobia. The expansion and compression like a womb at birth, in time with your breath, creates a toxic pressure and constrictive environment.
Your box, flipped upside down, catches acid rain. Filter the acid from the rain and you have one part good and one part bad. But you, you embrace the entire, unfiltered batch that stains your eyes and corrupts your projection film.
The reason why we don’t connect, is because I don’t live in your cardboard box. I don’t like your reality, and I refuse to let you drag me into your caustic world.