What is your daughter?
A doll.
Not the kind you buy in a store. A doll made of projections, of inner cracks wrapped up in stitched-on smiles. Inside her hides every insecurity a confident person needs to carry, just to keep up the act.
A sort of mirror — but one that throws back a distorted reflection, stretched and swollen until it becomes unbearable.
We're strong because we pretend to be...
Or do we pretend because we were once too strong for too long, and got tired?
Or maybe there's a kind of strength in owning up to our weakness — so long as it lets us stay on our feet.
So many questions.
So intimate, so human.
And when they get tangled up with schizophrenia, they create something beyond human.
An aspect.
A creature.
An ungrateful daughter… but a necessary one.
The need to have her is greater than the need to love her.
It's the need to have a problem. A burden. An obstacle big enough to justify your own existence.
After all, we complain just to complain...
because living in silence with the thing that eats us alive would be worse.
And maybe — just maybe — living like this, with this curse of self-pity and the endless clash between being and seeming,
is the true fate of an exorcist:
To be everyone's shield...
and never really know if, in the end, they're protecting the world — or if they just wanted to be saved.