The Chosen One

What's it like to be the chosen one?

It's terrible actually.

I'm not the chosen one in the traditional sense.

I'm no one's favourite- unless you ask my dog, then I am the most favourite person in the universe.

I'm the chosen one in the sense of being the escape goat- the punching bag. The one where you need something and I'm suddenly the most favourite person in the world.

What's it like to be born to just serve? To exist but not be able to live?

It's a death sentence.

I'm told I can go live my life- go travel- enjoy life

but on terms and conditions.

That's not a life.

I refuse to be servant any longer.

I'm exhausted of being a door mat- I want to be the door.

How does one become a door?

At least with a door you can close it and lock it.