The only thing I know about my father is that he left before I was born. As a child I would daydream about what he was like, where he was, why he left. By the time I was a teenager I had concluded that he was a vagabond or a vagrant - there was little difference between the two in my opinion. I would imagine him traveling from place to place by foot. Maybe trading a day of work for a meal and a warm bed. Living off the kindness of others.
Of course I was angst-ridden, and I decided at a very young age that I would never desert any family of mine. I would work my hardest and earn as best I could. I would provide all of the extravagances possible to my loved ones. I would utilize every last freedom that my country provided to its utmost.
By my late twenties I was well on my way to this fulfilling this ideal. I had a well paying job as a foreman at a local factory. I had a family-sized home with a healthy mortgage. I spent my free time out with friends and trying to meet the right girl.
One morning when I stepped out onto my porch to get my morning paper, I heard a jet soar overhead.
Somewhere along my path, I failed to pay much attention to the world around me. I simply paid attention to the media present in my life - television, movies, radio - all of these things designed to turn me into a consumer. I didn't know about global tension. I wasn't aware of the reason I experienced the things I did, and I was blind to the fact that I was becoming the product of someone else’s plan. I found myself quite suddenly aware of my situation - the bigger picture - and I thought of my father. That morning the media presented a different image to my newly born eyes, and a war had begun in my homeland.
At first I was unable to accept what I was coming to believe. I joined anti-war groups and protested the war. I wanted us all to live in peace as I had before the morning war broke out. About six months into the protests in various places across my country, we were met with great resistance by our armed forces. The harder they fought us, the harder we fought them. Many of my friends were wounded and a few other unfortunate fools even perished during these squirmishes. My anti-war group decided that it was time to make a true statement. We arranged to place bombs in the central park of my home town. We wanted to show the unaware public what was going on in the world. We wanted to wake up the sleeping masses.
When the bombs exploded, none of us were prepared for the destruction. They blew up 20 seconds early and many of us were not yet behind shelter - myself included. As fire shot into the sky behind me, I felt myself lift up from the ground - a slow lift first pushing up my shirt and my hair, then pulling my feet out from under me, sending me careening head over heels into the air. I came down head first, then crumpling to the ground. I could hear nothing but a solid tone in my ears. I could see nothing but white. And in this vast expanse of blank I thought of my father.
I left my life, my dreams, and my hopes. The world was finally clear. We were on a path to destruction and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The freedoms I had enjoyed were lies. Any opposition to the driving forces would be met with more resistance. Resistance will cause war, death. Bombs will be built and used to ensure that the freedoms of my country are sound. Bombs will be built and used to ensure that my people can continue to consume. Any opposition will simply be cause for more war.
I lived the vagabond life of my father. I lived as a vagrant, waiting for the day when the skies would light up behind me and I would be lifted up and away from all of this.