I see your face through distorted, sepia-toned, trans-dimensional drifts, and I can’t tell if you’re a boy or a girl, and I can’t see how old you are or what you’ve become, but I know you’re there. Somewhere. You exist to me in the here and now, I love you so very much, and if I could just find that wormhole that would suck me in and bring me to you, maybe that huge void that’s been with me all along would make sense.
I was meant to be your savior, your lifeline, your friend and guiding light. I would teach you the meanings of the words nuance, relativity, acceptance, and discernment. I could give you the gift of music. I could teach you how to dance, ultimately giving life and purpose to your every movement. I would tell you it’s all in the wrist, keep your eye on the ball, just let if go, you’re better than that.
But is that how it would be?
More likely you would learn from me what everyone learns from everyone else; propriety, limitations, regulations, the value of a dollar. That false premise that you exist independently of those lesser creatures and archetypes. You would have to be someone else when you’re with me and I would willingly accept whatever character you created for me. If you showed me something genuine and imperfect, or something less than angelic, I’d extend to you a stoic, passive, smirking rejection. And it wouldn’t make sense to you until you reach the retrospective haze of your mid-twenties.
But at the apex of your soul-searching you would find my legacy…
Extended to you, bequeathed to my possession, would be my void and need to create an existential crisis. And the cycle perpetuates. Feel my anxiety, you little clone….