Roots

Imagine an old oak tree whose roots have found their way to the surface, creating a series of very intricate knots that surround the beauty they keep grounded. This tree sits alone in a park that no one seems to visit anymore. Her anxieties and depressed states are the roots in which keep her grounded. Outside, she has hair as bright as the sun, and eyes so deep that it is hard to make yourself look away; the passion she possesses flows from her to you. Everything about her is electric. Like that old tree, she radiates beauty that captivates every soul that crosses her path. Unlike the tree, you can not see the things in which hold her down-those terrible things are hidden away beneath the breathtaking body that she calls home. Throughout her life, those roots of hers keep growing, but in the end, only making her stronger. One day she stumbles across that old tree and can not help but to smile.

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The Outside World

The sun was shining, so she closed her blinds as she swept her bangs from over her eyes; the brightness and glow was too much for her damaged soul to bear. An old and tattered floral chair, like the ones you see abandoned beside dumpsters, called itself home in the dimly lit corner of her room; she saw much beauty and history in things others only wanted out of their way. She also possessed a beauty that was often overlooked. By the chair sat a small table passed down from generations of people she would never know; old, dirty, and abused, the table beautifully held a caramel latte and an antique sea-foam green book. She adored things that others didn’t. In her over-sized sweater, her nervous hands picked at the threads as she imagined the outside world. Bright and happy, she thought, they just won’t understand; as always, she smiled shyly to herself, swept her silky hair behind her ear, and made that old chair home. Quietly sipping her coffee and taking in the dusty smell of her favorite book, she knew that things aren’t so bad after all.

Daydreams & Lipstick

I start my day by daydreaming of when my day will be over. I force myself out of bed, still exhausted, and start to make myself look like the girl I want others to see me as. Tired has become a permanent part of my personality. I pick out my clothes, furiously, because nothing looks good on me. So many clothes and I despise all of them. Can I wear all black forever? Makeup, hair, perfume. No part of me cares, but at the same time, every part of me does. When I can smile and know that my cheeks are rosy and my lipstick is on, somehow I feel better. I feel better knowing that everyone around me sees something more than just ‘me.’ The real ‘me’ is sad, anxious, quiet, awkward, withdrawn, exhausted, and somewhat hateful; the real ‘me’ wants to do nothing more than sit inside, alone, for days at a time. The real ‘me’ also wants to get drunk, have sex, spend lots of money, paint, binge watch Netflix, cry, and write things most people deem as depressing. None of that is helpful. So, here I am. Twenty-three years old, going on twenty-four, and I’m a wreck. I’ve accepted it, because frankly, I don’t see that changing any time soon. There are things that are out of my control that make my life a million times harder than it should or needs to be. Can I be carefree and enjoy my young adult hood? No way in hell. So, I will continue to wake up every day dreading everything. I will also continue to do my makeup, fix my hair, wear clothes that I sort of like, get my nails done sometimes, and smile until I feel better. Everyone needs something to get them through the day.

-I started writing this and had no idea where the post was going. It ended up being about makeup, which is something I’ve never written about before. Weird.-