Picture this: She's some washed up girl, nothing out of the ordinary. Hit a few bumps down the road is all. Let us just pretend for a moment that she's fine. That she doesn't hole up in her room, listening to Bon Iver and the Velvet Underground. That she doesn't wallow in her sorrows. That she doesn't feel anything. That she doesn't let people help her. That she doesn't let people in. Let us just imagine that she's the same as she was before, if not better. After all, isn't everyone always trying to make better versions of themselves? Isn't that what they're supposed to do? Fixate their brains on some inane task and miraculously triumph? That's life, or so she's heard. A constant competition with themselves to keep growing and improving. But what if her improvement is exactly the opposite?
Picture this: That girl? The one who wears black eyeliner? The girl who used to smile? The girl who cared, maybe even too much? She's still there. But she's buried. Buried underneath the lies and secrets and the crap she's had to deal with. She's sick of it, all of it. She's done. But above all, she's sorry. She hates that she drags everyone down with her. She didn't mean for it to happen that way. She promises. But, She wants to find another way. It's killing her. She's rotting from the inside out. She needs to find a way out. She has to.
Picture this: She's grasping flowers, so tightly that it would hurt her to let go. Like her bones would crack. She wanted to hold on to that beauty and that promise, like she used to hold on to her dignity, her courage, her strength. But like the flowers, all good things must come to an end.
Picture this: She's still the same girl that she has always been. Maybe just a little worse for wear. But, what is she gonna do? That's normal. Normal for her, and normal for me. We're one in the same.
Now, let's just try that familiar greeting. The greeting that says "I'm fine. I'm alright, really. Don't worry about me. I'm good."
Hi, I'm Julia, and it's nice to meet you.