I never knew my father and I never met him in my entire life. Well I did know him in that from before I could even read he would send letters and post cards to me telling me what he was doing, what he thought and felt and where he was at that time. He moved around a lot. I guess he must have those itchy feet that some get which means they can never settle and which probably explains why I never met him. I remember the postcards with pictures of strange places on the front tracking his moves around both the country and the world although there were probably more letters and later it finally became more modern forms of technological contact.

Although I never met my father and he, if you like abandoned me at birth or even before, I never had negative feelings to him. I never hated him. Maybe it was because of the letters and cards, or maybe it was just because even from a young age I understood that there were a lot worse things in the world than an absentee father and that really we should all value what we have rather than pine for something we don’t have. I also never loved him or even felt close to him in any way. He led what some would consider an interesting life and had what some would consider an interesting take on things but for all intents and purposes he was just another person to me and what others see as interesting from their conventional, conformist positions I find equally as conventional and conformist as the so-called mundane lives those that consider my father as interesting actually lead themselves. People rarely it seems value what they have and just want something different. That is sad.

Now as I sit clearing the back room I look at the collection of now fading or dog-eared cards and the letters with weakening blue scrawl on them and think also of some of the stuff still stored on one of those external hard drives somewhere. There are some messages that I still remember to this day and others that I have forgotten but dragging the large box out now I realise it wont easily be burned or discarded by me. Whatever emotionless little there was between me and my father it is still part of some nondescript history and as such doesnt deserve death. Maybe I should even record a few of them for anyone who is interested enough in seeing my selection of what was all I ever knew of my father…


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