It's difficult to write an entry here. It's not because I have no time, but because I don't know how time flows. Is it a rapid or a trickling stream or the ocean before or after the storm?
Now finally some time but still brief.
I looked at my newborn son juxtaposed next to my first born. They were both naked; they had similar features that convince me they must be brothers. One wasn't quite moving much except the constant swinging of the fists into thin air while the other is jumping even while lying down. The first won a mental medal for starting to make cooing sounds while the latter is formulating sentences in three languages now. So much suddenly seemed to have happened in the two years between their births.
There was a noticeable, perhaps just an iota of, feeling of accomplishment, of pride. It is however overshadowed by this never-ending fatigue. It is almost as if it were the salty residue of the briny water that is time, moving in this way that I said earlier I couldn't describe. It seems that as long as time flows without fully connecting to my senses, that it seems constantly to be slipping through my fingers, I carry this ever greater deposit of fatigue crystals, salty, ugly, and omnipresent.
Still, I felt that tiny glitter of pride that after two exhausting years I could see what we have done for a new human being. Maybe that gives me a slight bit of enthusiasm to move forward, a tiny bit of hope for how this path of fatherhood will manifest itself.
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