You can’t help but think about your sixty-something year old father, who despite being a little ill, is marching with hot-blooded boys through the streets of your neighbourhood, chanting “Eyimba! Eyimba!”. This is the fourth night of terror and there are many fathers out tonight.
here is also a feeling that I don’t want to be a part of this, that this, all of it, is something I don’t want in my life right now, or ever for the matter, and I’m feeling this the strongest. It’s not that I lack empathy necessarily, although that plays a role, it’s something more. It’s something about me, something in me