My Favorite Little Imp,
You have so much passion for life. It is a passion I’d like to say comes from me; your mother, though beautiful and one who enjoys the “fun” of life, does not have the same burning need to live as you do, to drink in oxygen as though it were fine wine and taste all of the foods the Earth offers. You and I are eternally looking for ways to live more fully, and are ever left with disappointment by others’ apathy. You may hate me now, for losing my way but you can never deny that we are two of a kind. I suppose nothing I say could possibly divert your passion away from hating me, but I don’t even know if I want to. Passion of any sort, even hatred breeds art of the purest form, not tempered by human trappings. But also, your hatred cannot compete with my own self-loathing that consumes me and probably blocks my archetypal road to recovery and redemption. I lost everything of yours, my darling Daphne’s, and at the risk of sounding self-pitying, of mine the most. Not only did I lose our money and lovely homes, but I also lost the two sole loves of my life. Without you even my job does not have the same meaning it did. How can I make these students, my Tabula Rasas, believe in the same passion and need for art when I cannot even believe in myself or in my ability to make you believe I am invincible?
Now I am just the fallen father, not infallible god who will save you from everything. This has left you troubled I know. Don’t be; nothing is as complicated as we make it. Someday I will make it up to you perhaps, but only if I first escape this Underworld I have begun to reside in.
Love Always, tout l’amour,
Dad.
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