I play with little dolls shaped like the idols of my childhood. This one, with the painted face. That one, with the sharpened tusks. This one has only one arm, and a bad knee. That one has clothes that are lacy, light and moth-eaten.
I've stood them up, and danced them about a thousand times. They talk to one another in the infinity of youth. I grow old and a little more wise. The skin of my puppets cracks under the scrutiny of years and practice.
One day, I stand up and let them fall from my hands. Marionettes with their strings cut. I've nothing left to learn from them. The string-slice scars on my hands are the remaining reminders of my retained respect.
10:24 p.m. - 2015-09-21
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