The one called Elise is the one things happen to. I sit at a desk and rummage through pages upon pages of sketches, paintings, poems, both finished and unfinished with her signature scribbled across them, yet it is not my own. I think she's interesting yet there's still something so unlikeable about her. Don't get me wrong, we share the same fascination for things unknown, dark, mysterious and even the satisfaction of fresh strawberries, yet her words taste like old pennies falling from my mouth. It's almost as if Elise can't seem to differentiate when the curtains of the stage are open or closed. Maybe because there is no applause.
In spite of our curious relationship, I keep my mouth shut because god knows we've gotten this far by some means and I'm afraid of messing it all up in one fail swoop. So I don't. I quietly remark on my own yet loud enough for her to hear or even feel my destain in the midst of whatever measure of success she'll sell my soul for.
My mother once told me that all things, good and bad, come to the light. Not me. I shall remain in the quiet comfort of darkness emitted by her oppressive shadow. But for how long? As I sit and shuffle through pages upon pages, I recognize myself less and less in her work, and yet I smile. Feeling light pierce through darkness like a needle and thread. I smile because I know my way out, although I'm afraid it'll take more courage than I can muster. But, I'm comforted by the certainty that Elise has always been mine.
And for clarification, I am the author.
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