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www.kevacho.com
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Kevin Michael Vance
Writer - Portland, Oregon
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October 20, 2010
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Hope is the most difficult concept to grasp, right now. My father wastes away, dieing a little more every hour and every second he takes another ragged breath. I hate seeing him so, unable to move, unable to open his eyes or speak, his body a wretched simulacrum of what it had once been. We sit and wait. And we watch, wondering when he'll take his last gasp of life. Waiting for him to die. What else is there to do? Nothing. Nothing at all. It is the moment we must all endure, and the door through which every last one of us will step.
I suffer from a languid sense of selfishness; wanting to run away into stories and movies and video games, wanting to be separate from everything and everyone, wanting to be alone. I love my father, and I hate that he has to suffer this slow death. No one should have to go through this - no one.
Forgive my incoherent rambling. I am not my self.
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