are these really mine?

There are some moments I close my eyes, and imagine that I didn't live the life I've just passed through, the one I'm living, the one I'm getting by in. I imagine it's a TV show, or maybe a real life tragedy, just one that someone else has gone through. The ebbs and the flows of this life I imagine are lived by someone with more strength than I, someone with more peace. I imagine a queen, fighting disaster along the way, with pride and confidence and the ability to walk through courageously. I imagine a man, so full of peace, the little things haven't squashed this mans soul, that he carries serenity like the wafting of a musky oil, sensual and familiar. I imagine a child, so innocent, so free, so *sigh*. But, I can't ever imagine me. I can't see me living this life I open my eyes to. I can't imagine that I've walked through it, though my head may not have been held high majority, if only for portions. I can't imagine that to this day, I've survived to tell the truth. My only truth. The truth I can only imagine.