The past weekend was full of anxiety. I felt Sartrean nausea, trying not to bend under the weight of my troubled existence. But if there was one thing that helped me live through the dull Saturday afternoon, it was the joy of playing with my son, having him in my lap, talking to him in his language of uuuus and aaaas, thinking about his future.
Looking at him I think about the feelings my father had looking at me, the anxiety he might have felt, but not expressed, about life and everything that comes with it. I am becoming such a cynic that I'm no longer upset when faced with tough luck, but when I look at my son and see how pure he is, I try not to think about the difficulties that await him on his path. Indeed, life has the power to turn us from little angels to begrudged beasts.
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