I think I never blamed my parents for the way they raised me. It was never really in my character to blame them, and now that I am older I realize that they where just kids when they gave life to me and my younger brother and sister. The way that you are raised has of course an influence on you, but I don’t think we should overestimate it. I was at least lucky enough that my parents wanted to steer me in the right direction, and didn’t blame me to much for their mistakes, but I have to admit that beauty for me cannot go without some flaws, and I like mine.

No matter what kind of parents you have, there is some kind of Stockholm syndrome going on when you think back, and tell your story. Parents get these random, scared little persons thrown into their laps, to take care of. They are not allowed to go, and are ensured by their hostage-takers that they will be fine, as long as they listen to them. After what seems to be ages, they are suddenly free to go, they smell the freedom, like they never smelled it before. And the people that kept you hostage for all these years, you thank them for their protection, and you visit them once a year in their jails.

I am not a parent, but I can imagine that a parent with a conscience is, without a choice, put on a trajectory that revolves around their kids, and no longer only around their own will. This is the kind of jail I was thinking of, but I am not sure that what I feel, is freedom.

The inspiration for today comes from a poem I wrote last year, Day 1577.

I remember the house

where I thought I grew up

~

there was an old chimney

a corner where I played

and my father closed the door

~

in my memories

he was never there

in reality

he often stares at me

standing in front

of my reflection