I wonder if, when Kym grows up (and I fade away) and has access to my posts and writings, to people’s comments and opinions, to my blog and my Twitter & Instagram feed, my emails and photographs, my letters and notes, would she bother reading any of it?
Would it make her introspect? Would it make her nostalgic? Or would it be one long cringefest? And what would she think of a father whose mind’s working she could delve into because he wrote what came to his mind, almost like thinking out aloud in public, and in black & white?
Would she be proud or ashamed of how I led my life? Would she forgive me my sins for being a man of my times, or would she judge me by the (hopefully higher and more progressive) standards of hers? Would she denounce me or defend me for my thoughts and actions?
Would she miss me and find solace (and me) in reading my diary? Would she take life lessons from it, or would she wonder what made me mistake my writing for anything more profound or meaningful than the random ramblings of a senile, out-of-touch-with-reality man?
Would she remember me as a reasonable man trying to be reasonable in an unreasonable world? Or would I be seen as a charlatan and poseur?
In fact, would she even take me seriously at all? Or would she be what I fear the most: indifferent to it all?
Like life itself, I guess there’s only one way to find out: To actually live it and see how everything turns out.
