Elle by Anoud Al Zouman

Posted on October 15, 2012 by

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Who is Elle? Learn a little bit about her here.

 

I get called bitch about five times a day. It comes with the job.

Some call me the freak that never fit in at high school.

The artist that didn’t meet its good ends with paper and canvases so she tattooed. A young naïve girl who likes to think she’d surpass Picasso and great others.

Maybe the girl who wanted and longed to stand head in head with god. Or at least wanted to build a god complex; others think of me as the girl that screams “help”. As if I always need someone there to keep me on my roots so that I don’t go crazy. Most of you call me lost. I like to think that I’m found, wary and just a tad bit confused.

 

Maybe it’s how I take life that makes others stereotype me. I like to think that I’m happy. I was hidden in my mom’s womb for months, although it’s impossible for me to recall anything, what I know is that as soon as I left my quiet sea, noise came. And the first was my scream. The noise is never-ending. I cannot say that I miss silence because I cannot recall it. I know it’s beautiful, it’s gorgeous.

 

I know that it’s perfect. Because if I sat here one day, with silence, complete silence, I know that my mind will not wander off to problems and thinking and thinking. I know that I won’t have to sing myself to keep myself from boredom. I know that all I have to do is be there. That my presence is enough; it’d be perfect and I long for perfection; I crave it almost like I crave to get my dirty hands on someone’s body so that I’d draw. If my hands get a hold of a brush and a canvas I’d break down.

 

Because I see perfection but I cannot draw it. This world of mine drives me crazy; my world is my weakness. And I quote myself on and on, I’m silent but my colors are loud. I want that sign that tells me I’m like those artists that go through difficult times but come out with a bright light that makes the most beautiful art. Give me that bright light. Perhaps I’m only midway throughout my dark tunnel, but I never catch a glance of its ending; and patience has never been a complimented trait in me.

 

My name is Elle, I’m 23 years old, and I know that I’m lost. Who’s my savior? Is it Allah? Jesus? Other gods or is it my closest friend? Or is it just me? The hardest thing for me is to admit that I don’t know. But this is Elle writing, and I know that one day I’ll find a savior.

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