Our faces look similar as infants.
Is that my mother or my sister?

But when truth hits it
Slams.
Flat on your back.

It is neither.

A mere reflection of innocence.
A moment captured. Frozen in time.

That child has
No character.
No prejudices.
No biases.
No sufferings.
Gradually
She will change.

Not quite ready
To grow into her own person.

As infants, we look similar.
Not anymore..
As we grow older, we grow farther apart.
Through appearances

But also through our thoughts and beliefs.
And gradually

We melt that picture,
And we are free.

And yet.
And yet.
That little voice that whispers:

Or is it the other way around?

We are born free and
Are slowly imprisoned
By our own
Biases
Prejudices.
Judgements.

Losing the
only thing that ever mattered.
Innocence.