Sometimes I think my father was born in the wrong era.
For him, "one's word is their bond" and
to think for one's self is the best way to live,
to call you an independent thinker can only
be regarded as the highest complement he could give you.
Contrary to a fault, antagonizing when he disagrees,
there is a flair of the dramatic in the force of his will
and the unwavering stubbornness that holds everyone to an
impossibly high standard one can only hope to strive towards meeting.
He is a far from perfect man,
but many greater men
can be faulted for much worse.
I watch him pour through the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson
like I rip through fantasy romances in a matter of hours,
Romance is a term he might only understand in its classic sense.
He has read as many Rudolf Steiner books as I have written poems
(and I write to keep creative madness at bay),
and he writes a passion project - a manifesto, really -
about finding spirituality in the digital age,
an artificial-intelligence-fearing, reincarnation-believing
neo-transcendentalist potentially on the cusp of revolutionizing minds with a call that stirs them to action,
the culmination of his life experiences and the ever growing library filled with history's finest minds,
a treasure trove of dog-eared knowledge annotated with a flourishing script that belongs in Renaissance correspondences.
Perhaps in his past life he was a young hopeful
who died too early to achieve greatness,
come back to life with the vengeance of
a thousand muses collected through the centuries.
Been a while, friends.
— The End —