As children, we are taught that we can be anything we want to be, whether it be a President, an astronaut, or a firefighter. We can become, it seems, anything–as long as that thing is not ourselves.
We become the thing we hate because the thing we love is too much to bear; it’s too raw and too real, too fragile to survive. Defeated, we strive to be our worst, confident that, if nothing else, we can be that. Despite our best intentions, we become the person that we swore we’d never be, finding out that everything is just a matter of perspective once it’s too late. In order to protect the parts of ourselves we hold most sacred, we offer up our best parts of ourselves; in order to become who we want to be, we give up who we are.
We become the thing we love because the thing we hate is too much to bear; cobbled together with spent wishes and worn-out prayers, we cling to the thing we hope to be because it beats the hell out of who we really are. We focus on who we can be–who we could be–or who we were because who we are is too much and never enough. A shine, a sheen, a glamour–one day we’ll forget that we’ve slipped into another skin and it’ll all be for real.