Cultivation

Rachel was plain.
Like cream cheese slathered over the carb filled bagels she ate when she was depressed. Rachel wanted to know why she couldn't make other people laugh unless she was reciting something she had copied from a movie. Her voice quivered with nervousness, she longed for talent, she wanted some sickness to take her away to a bed that she could pump a novel out in.
Perhaps the secret to finding yourself is copying other people, she mused. The rise from mediocrity to superstardom couldn't be that hard. It is much easier when you put yourself on a pedestal, when you make up lies about how fantastical you are - all when you are not. Human emotions are like fish scales, covering you and making you fool proof and unable to catch fire. And Rachel was saturated with these emotions, all copy and pasted from whatever movie she saw it from, book she read it from, stack and stacks of scripts in hear head, littering her until she sunk to the bottom.
A glass pane facade, her face, speckled with sporadic ticks of honesty - is a map of everyone else's words. She is graffiti, a subway wall, a bathroom stall - although untouched by callus hands. If the sky got any bigger, Rachel wondered, it would swallow me up whole. The wind would sweep her up onto a cross, and she would willingly put her arms out for martyrdom - martyrdom means fame. And fame means a name, one she would have earned instead of inheriting. But even still, nothing got Rachel's blood boiling enough to put herself on a cross for. days went by like blizzards, fast, thick, and blinding her. Before Rachel could find a reason to cry, there was a reason to cry - herself. What is a person but a shell anyways? Do you open yourself to an inhale thinking you are above someone? Rachel believed she was destined for great things. But Rachel didn't realize that great things only come to those who have a spirit.
She should have cultivated hers.