To my dear beautiful daughter,
I’m writing you a letter. That’s right a good old fashioned letter. It’s a lost art, really? Like handjobs. Shit.
I have a confession to make, I didn’t like you very much at first. You were just this annoying little blob. You smelled nice, most of the time, but you didn’t seem to have much interest in me, which I of course found vaguely insulting. It was just you and your mom against the world. Funny how some things never changes. So I cruised the long doing my thing, acting the fool, not really understanding how being a parent changes you. And I don’t remember the exact moment that everything changed. I just know that it did.
One minute I was impenetrable. Nothing could touch me. The next my heart was somehow beating outside my chest, exposed to the elements. Loving you has been the most profound, intense, painful experience of my life. In fact it’s been almost too much to bare. As your father, I made a silent vote to protect you from the world. Never realizing that I was the one who end up hurting you the most.
When I flash forward my heart breaks, mostly because I can’t imagine you speaking of me with any sort of pride, how could you? Your father is (I´m) a child in a man’s body, he cares for nothing and everything at the same time. Novel in thought, Weak in action. Something has to change, something has to give. It’s getting dark, too dark to see.
Hank Moody
Sabes que he desarrollado cierto fanatismo por Hank Moody, ese escritor rebelde, adicto y con vida desastrosa, un personaje de ficción que descifra mi vida de tal manera que a veces hasta me aterra. En esta carta que le envió a su hija, menciona cosas que he querido decirte desde hace mucho mirándote a los ojos, pero no se puede.
Así que como Moody, te dejo esta carta hecha al viejo estilo, donde resalto frases para ti, aunque supongo que al leerla las descubrirás...
