Real

I wonder some days what would make me a real person.
A human being made of more than just flesh and blood and bone
but of something far more substantial.
A spirit full of passion, full of life.
Music running in her veins, melodic, triumphant, aching, perfect.
Though no perfection exists in the souls of real people, I do believe
that to be considered real, that perfection must at least be
constant.
Constantly trying to manifest itself in a long enduring struggle.
A struggle against steel ropes, and small cages, the ability to walk
but never stand.
I wonder some moments what could make me a real person.
If I were to travel long roads with strange people and do things
that I could never allow myself to do?
Find ways to breathe, to touch, to taste that I could never explain to
my own body.
I wonder often if perhaps I was once a real person.
When my heart was still a child, unclouded by responsibility or weariness.
Unchanged by a jaded existence.
When my mind, blood, flesh, and soul all lived for a purpose greater
than to simply stay alive.
And then I wonder what price I'd pay to feel real once more.