Eyes closed, I walk the dimly lit corridors of my mind. Perplexed at the portraits of my personality plastered on the walls. Reflections of my father, mother, family, and priests.
Even teachers, artists, media, and police. I now realize I am not me. How I think and speak. What I believe, what I love. I am simply a product of the influences bestowed upon me.
I find myself staring into the portrait of my mother.
Was her enduring will evidence of self-taught resilience? Or is a strong spine forged by unfortunate surroundings?
At what point does this seemingly timeless abuse of objective originality begin? I realize originality is lost upon the point of conception.
Whether the earliest design of sentient cell, or the conscious awakening of modern man. Pure originality destined to be disrupted by interactions of our surroundings.
Yet these interactions derived this insight. I feel I have freedom of choice and that I am unique. After all, these portraits do face me. Eyes open, I lay silent.
The foundation of myself, these corridors I roam, were not laid by personal choice. But by these painted smiles faces. Perhaps I am lost in translation, clothed by ignorance.
I wonder though, who painted their faces? But naked I now lay, immersed in all filth and glory. I am told this road progresses forward, and I need stand up.
"You need to spread your wings son, and aim for the stars." So now I stand tall, but still flightless and clothed. That flicker of hope washed away from my mind.
I move to the mirror to now see who's here. Why is it always a demon smiling back at me?