Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through. - Plath.

Pain has resurfaced.

Tonight, I have witnessed a character caring for her dying father. He was in a bed in her home, surrounded by his children and a carer. So did my father die, but we were not there…

The last shot showed a dead man’s vacant eyes. They are brown, as my father’s were green. I have my father’s eyes, both present in my body and in my mind.

The characters clustered around their dying father, they were looking into his eyes as the light faded from them. Where was I? Gone.

I cannot stop sobbing.

Was he thinking of me? I don’t know. I never will.

Our greens were matched. I have ever been my father’s daughter.

He’s dead. That’s it.

Did he even know who he was looking at, the very last time? He was dying, and confused. Is it not possible that to him, I was a stranger? Did he remember me as a child, helping to make mud bricks?

I cannot stop sobbing.

Did he know who I am now? Could he see me? Did he know the direction of my heart?

I am raw.

I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even fucking there.

I watched the other man die; an actor, a fake. That is perhaps the closest I will come to seeing my father, my blood… die.

I am torn apart.