I wonder what it’s like, being trapped in your own body while it fails to work. While it fails to move… to function. And yet, to still have eyes that can see. 

 I wonder what it's like to have such stiff muscles, so stiff that the only movement you can achieve is that of someone else’s hand putting in their efforts to change the way you stand, or sit, or even look.

 Your fingers are like webs, unable to separate from one another, therefore rendering you from touching, feeling, grabbing. 

 Your eyes are sewn open, unless you are laying down for an afternoon nap. Glued to the scene in front of you, there are no means for you to blink. You get to see the beauty of the world from a stand still, and yet, you are trapped in the endless cycle of sticking with the drama. Eyes that can’t move. Eyes that stick. 

 Others undress you, as if what you choose to wear doesn’t suffice their own needs. They put you in a dress, even though you prefer pants, in order to restrict you to their idea of beauty. In order to change the way you think of and perceive yourself. 

 Or maybe it’s because you have no voice. Maybe they don’t ask you what you want to wear because your response will be a wide eyed stare, and nothing more. You have no voice… no means to communicate.

 You lack an identity. 

 Maybe I am like you. Maybe I can’t speak for myself, or focus on the beauty of the world without being blindly focused on the pain. 

 Maybe I lack a voice, a reason, a purpose. 

 Maybe I can’t make a single decision for myself, and although I have the ability to speak, I know I won’t be heard. 

 So, I let them put me in the dress. I let them glue my eyes to the hate. I let them move my limbs, separate my fingers, because I simply don’t know how. And although that means I cannot see, or feel, or touch without the opinion of another, I have come to terms with this reality.

 Thus, I follow their lead. 

 You are a doll. A toy. A means for a child to smile… a means for someone else to feel as though they have purpose. A child to a child, who searches for themself in your eyes. 

 I am a doll. A toy. A means for the people around me to smile… to feel as though they have a purpose. A child to no one, but an object that has no meaning in its eyes. 

 I can’t imagine what it’s like to be you. 

 Then again, we aren’t so different after all. 

 In fact, we are both toys. We are both objects to be played with, to help others find their meaning. 

 I am the doll.

 How does one have meaning in a world where they don’t even exist?