The feeling of having failed as an artist, which throughout my waking hours lays siege to my sense of self, is strain enough. But a far greater grief assails my heart. The death of my father has left a yawning chasm in the lives of my mother, my sisters and myself. It is as though a stabilising force has vanished, the lynch pin holding us together withdrawn, so that without my father's calm and tolerant presence we find ourselves riven by misunderstandings, lost in a welter of confusion and emotional upheaval.
We have lost our pole star and thus without, careen about wildly, cast hopelessly adrift.