30

So I turned thirty years old this month. I've been carrying a sad bag of tragedies and diseases for a long time now, but I was happy to make it till 30. Unfortunately, none of those could have amounted to what happened last week.

My father died in the most tragic way possible and it's not a memory that will fade with time easily.

I myself have a lung infection which, I can tell, hasn't healed because I've been smoking way too much since his passing.

My hopes and plans for thirty and the years ahead probably will remain the same. Be more successful, read more, see more, push myself more. However, I need to be there for my family even more now. I also need to look after myself, which I have failed at over the last decade.

I've learned to accept the monster inside of me, but I cannot accept the fact that I have no control over it. My soul weeps every day knowing that the people in my life are temporary and how I have never - and probably never will - learned to show affection and care for my loved ones properly. I wish I could see my father one last time and tell him how sorry I am and how much I loved him, but that chance is gone and I have to live with the guilt of his death all my life.

I love you, Abbu.
I am sorry.