There stands the monster. The beast. That hideous, unimaginable nightmare. It’s gangly figure lingers, watching. Watching me. Mouth abnormally wide—swallowing my attention. Then I notice: hanging still—perfectly limp—the pajama-clad skin of a man, much smaller than the creature itself, eyes vacant.  My heart jumps to the base of my throat as, all in one motion, gnarled fingers slip into a hole somewhere in the back of that lifeless skin, separate the folds and the creature climbs, slithering, inside. The body tosses. Zips. Turns. Wakes.

Good Morning to You. Ready for another day? Another game? Another act on this stage—this façade of a personality you put on which hardly resembles what you know lies beneath? Stand backed against the wall, aghast, lost in the mirror. Is this who you are too? Is that what lives inside this—this—body? This shell in which You dwell? Then it hits you. What you see is not who you are. It’s not that simple. You wish it were. To God, you wish…but you’re more than physical. You know that now. This fearful image staring back into your own eyes, now steadily trembling with revelation, does not define You. The realization terrorizes you, reducing your worst fears to moot, as you are faced with not what is portrayed to those around you each passing day, but You—what you Are. The spirit that dwells within—the real You.

Who—what—are we?