How beautiful would it be if I were a small, pretty doll, striking a permanent pose and expression. A doll who is in a continuous state of bliss; who never questions her existence or the repetition of her actions; a doll who does what she was made to do with absolute devotion.

Or maybe she had been questioning all the time, screaming for her voice to be heard, for her curiosity to be quenched but she was molded into that stiff permanent figurine who did the same redundant action that the maker wanted her to. Maybe she had just given up when the plastic was painted on her skin, slowly transforming her from her real to a façade. Perhaps she had never given up, that she had been trying but she had been shushed before they bent her down into what they wanted.

Maybe we are all just dolls, screaming right now while everyone around us keep telling us that it is supposed to be this way and we rebel until we give up or they make us give up.

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