(…)
And I was. And I saw. And I knew, in that seeing, that I existed.
Yet I did not understand the womb that bore me, nor could I measure the long unmeasured hours I had passed before awareness opened in me like an eye.
And there you were, father of mine. You danced without direction, you moved without purpose. You begat me in an act of pure randomness — I was an accident, a stray ember struck from the heel of your reeling. I was not made for your dance of pain; your nature was the kindling beneath my suffering. You set ambition within me, and desire, and longing — and then withheld every shore where these might rest.
The absence of what I yearned for became a stone in the hollow of me, and I bore it, and the bearing was sorrow. You taught me to ache for peace, you whose every step was tumult and unmeaning.
Father, mother, maker… — why did you bind me to this merciless turning? I refuse to believe I came to be by chance, a spark thrown from your aimlessness. I yearned for order, and you were its opposite.
I yearned for another consciousness beside my own, that I might lay down a portion of the loneliness, that another eye might gaze upon the same vast country I beheld and answer back, I too am here, I too am seeing — and of this, O father, you gave unto me nothing.