My father presents a dilemma in my life. To talk with him means to take all my principles and my beliefs and put them in the corner and listen to his explanation about whatever he feels like talking. To say what I feel about something means to incur his wrath. This has been the way I communicate with my father for the past few years, ever since I took the initiative to say what I mean. Obviously, this has not been very beneficial in our relationship. Calls home would be spent mostly talking to my mom, and conversations with my father would revolve around money and studies. This is normal among many families, apparently. 

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Well, this is an awkward position I’m in. Staring clueless at the monitor, then the keyboard, then the monitor again, wondering how to start putting together the words that will become the catalyst to the torrent of ideas that’s been buzzing in my head for the past few days. Now that I’ve dug out the old laptop (actually I took it out of my father’s car), and have a room to myself, these ideas will bloom into sentences that will miraculously move my fingers to type those keys that will transfer said sentences to the computer. Now, if only real life was as predictable as fiction.

Continued here.