Dear son, I write this letter as a warning. Do not compete with me in words. As much as I want to see you surpass me in writing, it would pain me to see you do so. My words come from pain; they are soaked in blood, carrying the weight of sacrifice and the aftermath of war.
My words carry the weight of my sister’s murder as her life was stolen from us, my uncle’s death, and the stolen futures of classmates who met their demise. I carry the memories, the dreams, and the ghosts, merging them into a cyclone of pain to construct these lines.
My words are strong because they are born as my heart squeezes the agony out. My words taste of blood. You are a writer; it is in your blood and your genes. I see that. I know that. I prepared you for it. But I ask of you: please do not compete with my pain to match my words. I write with ink soaked in the blood of my heart’s deepest chambers. Do not compete with your old man in words, for you will only hurt yourself and me.
Find your own path. I will be proud enough when you write from the heart, not to bleed, but to heal the soul. Dear son, Do not compete with me in pain and self-suffering; you cannot win. I would not allow it.
But if you compete in love, you will absolutely win over your old man. Oh, wait… I forgot. In order to understand love and truly live it, you will have to sacrifice. And sacrifice is its own kind of pain. But that’s a path each man should take. Either way, do not compete with my words.