nature v. nurture.

It's chilling to realize how, in age, you mirror your parents more and more. You see flashes of them every now and again; flickers of their quirks and tendencies begin to show themselves in how you approach the people around you, the way you overcome challenges, the process by which you shape your opinions. The tenor of your anger.

Strangely enough, in my usual habit of over-thinking everything, I find myself thinking less of him and more of myself. How I acted, as alcohol burned down all inhibitions and emotions flooded my judgment. So unlike me, to speak and act so wholly without filters. But what strikes me most is that, looking at myself, I see flashes of my mother, on the rare occasions when the myriad stresses of day-to-day life became too much and her usually steadfast mental composure slipped. There are traces of her temper lining mine: the cruelly mocking twist to my words, the horrible sad laughter, the selection of curses, and even way my fingers clutched my face, as if their hold could keep me from completely falling apart. Me, running up the stairs, wildly, as if running would actually take me somewhere better. The catharsis of gut-wrenching pent-up frustration.

It's eerie, to see how the present is so deeply rooted in the past. A person truly is the sum of life experiences. While the details may blur, the further I go, the better it seems I am able to look back and understand.