Emotional slip

I allow myself to miss you only on Sundays, sometimes. There are scribbles on the walls here and there, that's just so typical of you, nothing I didn't expect. I wonder sometimes about the mental agony you could be going through. I don't miss the everlasting chasing, and my continuous futile attempt to please you, uplift you, get you out of your mental rot, or explain it all to you time and again, this perceptional imprisonment you're at. I couldn't think of anything more tiring than decades of that. Two quarters of my lifetime are gone and done with, now I start the third quarter. Without you because you chose everything else over me, and I'm fine with that for now. Let's see how far I can go now without the weights and the pulling down. But I miss you, sometimes, on Sundays, sometimes.

I see you in your growing up phases in front me, this corner and that space, these memories and those other ones. Always chasing and trying to satisfy you. Make up for the madness that is this most messed up existence. It wasn't my fault, nothing was of my doing, but I loved you. 

I still do, obviously, and I miss you, sometimes, but mostly today, for it's Sunday. 

I hope you're going to outsmart me with all the tools you have now, and break them those damned generational patterns, from both sides. Don't play the game, don't play games, quit it already, won't you please!

Oh don't mind me, I'm just blabbering again. 

I've decided to allow myself to feel you, on Sundays, sometimes. 

You're still deep within me, but I'm learning to release you, a little bit more every new day. 

On Sundays too, sometimes. 

I hope you're in a good shape baby girl. 

Truly now, 

my darling baby.