A poem scrawled between paragraphs on AC generators, a piece of prose that was definitely not about haloalkanes, yet found home among their like, little stories that filled in the gaps where he was to have drawn in parts of the human anatomy;

You could tell he didn't want to be a doctor or an engineer: he wanted to write.

Sadly, it was never his choice: it had been written into his fate, by a handed-down assumption that these were all there was, that unless your son tended to human lives or machine lives, he was going to die a penniless pauper, make nothing of himself. Like some sort of sacred edict, it travelled down generations, unimpeded, unopposed, unquestioned, the lives it ruined in its wake, simply collateral damage.

No comments:

Post a Comment

RANDOMOSITY (is that a word?)