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.