From way out here, your games look so funny..

Looking up at the shards of light peircing the copper tinged lake water as they danced in imitless variation i could hear the bubbles of air rise around me. The moments beween skimming along the waters surface at the bow of the small sailing dinghy like a skillfully hurled pebble to slowly feeling my life vests pull to the surface was instant. Fast enough infact to seem like the jump cut from a badly edited movie. From the nieve perspective of my twelve year old self this was impiracly, terminally “it”. Feeling the soft tangle of ropes around my ankle sealed it for me in a curiously stretched pocket of time. Those fleeting instances of immature inrospection where more than sufficient to let a sense of belligerent defiance burst free, moments before reaching the surface. Why me? this is so unfair . On being told of my sons impending death some thirty years later, I recall the same emotion, this time with the detached recognition that these where in fact the openning acts experienced in the various stages of greif. We both survived, but something imperceptible, vast and unquantifiable shifted forever. Maybe it had already broken free under the surface the lake, the interveing thirty year teenage angst, morphing into mid life crisis perhaps eventualy growing into twighlite year eccentricity. I reluctantly played the games society set me up for, I begrudgingly wore the masks expected- ambitious employee, one of the lads, ect, ect. My sons condition forces his perspective to be that of a young boy, fixed maybe ever. There are no games of pretense for him, everything is real and free from expectation, peer evaluation. He values being full of cake, hiding in his duvet, watching kids tv shows. how did it become so difficult for me to be so happy, so simply. I prefer his games to mine. To see the world as he does, perpetually new.

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