The illusion wears such a heavy mask that it begins to provide comfort…it lulls to a false sense of security; disguises itself as happiness and insists upon itself…until one day…you reach a point where you can no longer distinguish the original from the new…you no longer wish to be reminded of the original because the new is all that you have come to know..and recognise. You’ve told yourself the original is the real you…the better you..the you that they want to see…the you that is accepted..loved..desired. All traces of the original must remain hidden…or at least that’s what they tell you. And so you begin to hate the original, to deny it, to starve it in the hopes that it will change. That you will change. That you can somehow fit a prototype. An accustomed norm. An idea of beauty. The problem is…beauty can not be derived from hate.