How silly of me.
To maintain solidarity. To believe i wouldn't change. To think that i'd weather it all.
No more futile than the desperate fluttering of leaves that fall inevitably to the ground.
I cannot conquer the ephemerality of this world.

Anyway. I'm deciding that perhaps my father isn't as blockheadedly stupid as i thought. Although it really is quite silly to think that, him being a lecturer and all. But anyway yeah. He saw me reading Silas Marner and suddenly he passed me 3 books, Dubliners by James Joyce, Selected Poems by TS Eliot and Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore. I was like "oh my goodness you've read all this". haha. To think a mathsy person like him would read this kind of thing.

So anyway I tried to read them. Keyword here being tried. Its really really really beyond me. Haha. But anyway, flipping through them really revamped my view of him. Its interesting. It would appear that at one point in time he really was quite interested in lit. Hmm. And maybe perhaps we weren't as different as we thought.

Or perhaps its all just a cycle. Maybe as I toddle through my life, I walk in my father's footsteps, drawing parallels I never even knew existed. A circle so immense we only see the tangents.