They say
a man once entered
a lookalike contest of himself —
and lost.
Not because he changed,
but because the mirror did.
It sounds absurd —
until you look around
and see it everywhere.
There are lookalikes of you, too.
Not of your face —
of your function.
Not of your name —
of your compliance.
Versions sculpted not by time,
but by demand.
Crafted to please
what power finds pleasing.
Smiling just enough.
Thinking just little enough.
Bleeding just pretty enough.
They walk like you,
talk like you,
but speak in rehearsed echoes
that sell better than you ever could.
And the ones in charge of choosing
have long forgotten
what a pulse feels like
without market value.
They clap for reflections,
not roots.
They crown copies
because originals make them nervous.
And you —
you think you’re different?
You think you’re real?
You, too,
have been shaved into shape,
your edges filed,
your voice pitch-corrected
for polite consumption.
You’re not rare.
You’re well-behaved.
Not indivisible.
Just unclaimed.
You are a specimen
in a showroom of simulations —
priced, posed,
and placed.
You were never made
to be remembered.
Only replaced.
Because in a world
where memory is measured
and truth is subjective,
the only thing more profitable
than your image —
is someone better at faking it.
So, be very afraid —
not of death,
or failure,
or irrelevance
but of becoming
someone else's imitation
of the self you never dared to be.
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