This Is Not A Story

This is not a story. This is a collection of words on a page which may or may not confess a truth, or perhaps many truths. This is not a confessional booth, with the woody scent and the heady feeling of admitting it all. This is not a text box full of secrets and seductions to bring you closer, to make you believe you know. This is not an admission of guilt, a biography, or even a close approximation to someone's real life.
There is a girl. She lives her life day-to-day, no longer certain which direction is the one she came from and which is the one she is meant to move forward in. There are many people who think they know this girl, many who would call themselves close, confidants, lovers, buddies. She will always tell her secrets, trust in you, hold to your hands for heart-felt confessions.

These confessions are never true. You see, once, a long time ago, the girl began to understand the people around her. She realized that they already knew what it was they would see, would hear, would accept. This flick of the wrist, that aversion of the eyes, spoke to her far more loudly than words could. With knowledge like this it became such a simple task to imitate, ape, to fake. And what a rush it was, to know that with a shift of her weight, an edge to her smile, she could be any person she wanted, whatever person the situation called for.
The steps came quickly from here--the clothes, bulging from the closet in a rainbow of shades and styles, attempts at finding which costume fit best, abandoned and dismissed as quickly as tried on. The voice could change, to carry the twang from below the Mason-Dixon, the soft sophistication of the Northeast, the rushing, slurring slang of the inner city. From face to face, role to role she slipped with grace and ease, like pulling on a mask. It was a high nothing else could match that she could ride for days at a time, a buzz untouchable by any drug in the world. She could smoke and drink and cuss, or sit back and cross her legs just right and hold her cup just so--whatever her fancy called for.
And once the characters had been tried and tested, strands from every story were drawn together, woven into an impressive, colorful, and lively tapestry that yet managed to be just the correct side of believable. The chosen uniform, the final product of years of creation. An aesthetic machine, knowing just what to say, when to say it, and what tone of voice to use.

This will not be a biography, or a tell-all, in truth. This is a tapestry. The woven words and lies and delicate gestures, and the person that they belonged to. There will be drama, excitement, tears, joy, and fear, all in the cinematically appropriate places.
What there will not be is truth.