Consider Us To Be Dolls
I’ve been made.
Not the way most people are made, with either a fateful mistake or long-lived intent. I
was not born the way people are born, or grown the way they were grown.
I am not real.
This needs saying. You have to understand that this is my reason. I am not a creature of
habit, or education, or coincidence. I am one of design.
They did not make in a factory or on an assembly line, but that doesn’t matter. I am no
more real than your average toaster.
I have thoughts. I have words. I have actions. None of them are mine.
I was made this way. I was made to think how I think, and do what I do, and see how I see.
I do not think they meant me to know.
I was not meant to see beyond the veil, to see the strings being pulled. But even so, I
hate who I was meant to hate and love who I was meant to love, and only sometimes do I
confuse the two. I love my maker and hate my maker. I thank the one who gave me life and
curse them for it.
It is something strange to live a paradox.
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