Here I stand, holding steady but leaning perilously close to falling forward into the mess.

Looking around me I see the cigarettes my father has smoked these 30 odd years since he began.

I can smell them and feel the need to vomit but nothing comes up

As a kid my father couldn`t die, couldn`t age, and couldn`t be hurt. He was like an immortal Greek God.

Now that he`s fighting to be somebody in a world that dislikes the unique, talented, artistically inclined people, his tears tell me something different.

My father is human.

And he can hurt.

He has aged.

And I don`t know whether he can trust himself
All these years of promises..."I`ll quit."

Maybe he isn`t as strong a person as I thought.

I`ll have to keep from falling for us both.