Mirrors

I wish my mother were Julianne Moore, or perhaps Susan Sarandon. I wish my mother were some kind of hybrid of Julianne Moore, Susan Sarandon, all of the roles they’ve ever played and a combination of my own mother.
For a father, someone suitably paternal – Ed Harris? Michael Caine? With some Bob Hoskins, as-well as a generous helping of my own father.
I wish my world was one of Hollywood fantasies, instead my voices much more closely resemble myself.
It is frightening.
Thrilling.
Sounds that compel me to listen.
I think I’ve become so many abstracts of myself which have then become me and back again, I can’t keep track.
Walking of their own accord, speaking with their own voices; becoming second nature, taken for granted.

How can I show you this, what my everyday is? You don’t see it, it is a world all-together hidden from you. You will never know what they say, see what they look like. Even if I told you I could be lying, or one of them could be speaking. I don’t think you can imagine what it is like to live like this.
Prove it to me.
As unfairly as it is; allow me to be selfish just this once in my life.

Prove to me the depths of your perception, empathy and understanding, and in return, I will love you until the day I die, or at the very least, for as long as I am allowed.