In Dreams

[shosen]

My form is a lie. My face is another’s. I’d like to say that I’ve gotten used to it, but I don’t think I ever really will. How can I?

Illusion, creating the image of something that is not. Firecracker flash, and hey Presto! A whole new you.

Only… it’s almost the old me.

Shorter hair, but the right shade of brown. Sharper features, but rightly feminine. Lighter eyes, but almost the right colour. I can’t believe how much I miss being able to see my own eyes in a reflection.

But it’s temporary, for a purpose, and I can’t delay now, can I? That would be wrong.

Little things, waves, smiles, nods. Miss instead of Mister with no need for correction or uncertainty.

A lie to get at the truth, for such a short, short time.

I understand the rage, and the grief. How it feels to look around and see that your life isn’t what you thought and nowhere near what you wanted.

Is this really a constructive way to deal with it?

In the end, I can’t even help. I’m clinging to my illusion, trying not to draw my attention to myself.

Inaction in the face of destruction.

Inactive in the face of grief and pain, left watching.

But you can’t hold onto illusions. By their nature, they’re slippery, limited things.

Illusions fade, dreams die, and we’re left to pick up whatever pieces remain. If you have hope or faith in anything, you can pull those things to you, use them to hold yourself together until the next dream comes along.

If you don’t, you start to lose yourself, bit by bit. Fading away with inaction, until you’re nothing but a ghost beneath whatever face you’re forced to wear.