With me, death seems to be everywhere. Like a shadow hungry for light, it follows me in all realms of realities. Whether it is friends or neighbours, my association with death is a constant. I also seemed to be affected by my parents’ death in a different way to my siblings; I didn’t grow up with them.

Growing up in different homes, I began to construct ideas of my own. An introverted avid reader, I found solace in the book characters that related to my world. But there was a thirst about me that book characters couldn’t quench. The thirst to find my father. The question of who he was kept the momentum of this thirst. But this was met by an equal resolve to keep the wall of silence erect. I sensed a stench about the whole thing, I decided to dive deeper into the search.

In this search, I discovered that everything I had been taught was irrelevant to the search – it was personal. After twenty-eight years of searching, my mother started to appear in my dreams. Intrigued, I started a dream journal that would go on for two years. Like a spark, my mother’s dreams reveal nothing of the search but reveal all as I picked up interest in the subject of death. I began to realise that the search was never about my father, it was about me.

My child-like curiosity got the better of me as I journeyed in different worlds to understand death, only to discover that, the search, the shadow of death and the victim mentality was all part of a whole play of life – it was all perfect.

With an eventual air of relaxation to the conclusion of my life’s search, I discovered that the man I had perceived as my father wasn’t my father. Whether I had the tools to fathom the truth, is a question for the Akashic records. Who was my father?