There once was a girl. For the sake of the story, we will call her Olive. Olive looked very young. She had great genes. External genes that is. Most of the women on her mother's side looked very young. A true miracle. Internally, Olive had aged way too quickly. She had the soul of a 93 year old. An old soul. And too many experiences to count for her young age. Painful experiences.
Olive played a part. She was the lead in a very complex play. She was the heroine. For everyone else. She showed up to every practice. Never missed a beat. Lines were all memorized. Costume was always ironed and pressed. She even ad-libbed when others' faltered. Olive was a pro. Always to be counted on. Reliable. Responsible.
Olive held it all together. Until one day, she couldn't. Olive couldn't fake it anymore. Her facade started crumbling. The walls around her soul could no longer hold themselves up. The glass surrounding her heart lay in a shattered mess inside her lungs. Every breath became difficult. Every movement felt weighed down.
Olive continued showing up to practice. But her lines faltered. Her enthusiasm was lacking. She showed up. But she wasn't really there. She was nowhere to be found. She heard nothing. Not the director and not her fellow actors. The only sound that penetrated her body was the music. Only music. The music had never left her. Never abandoned her. Olive felt enveloped in the music's power. It ate her alive.
The story of Olive never ends. It just goes on and on. Until it doesn't.