This is basically my reworking of "Borges & I," an essay by (who else?) Jorge Luis Borges. Text of aforementioned essay can be found here. I was pretty pleased with how it turned out overall. Comments/feedback would be greatly appreciated.

I've got a twin. Her name is Lily and she remains, for the most part, confined to the world of mirrors. That's how we meet, really; she gives me advice on how I look, always reflecting her mood onto me. Very persuasive girl. Whenever she's distraught and I see her, I know I appear the same way. This is understandable: I only see her for a limited amount of time each day, so she gets quite lonely. Sometimes I think I am only a cavity for Lily to project her feelings onto, a doll for her to play with. I don't think this is very fair.

She acts like she is the one trapped in our relationship, but I feel this is a complete inaccuracy. When we are not embracing our emotions collectively, we lead separate lives. She is always out; while I wash the dishes, make dinner for myself (she never wants feeding, says I eat for two anyway), writing my essays, she evaporates so she's not around to help. She loves parties, remains in a perpetual state of elsewhere, whilst I reflect upon our lives together. Nevertheless, she will occasionally pop home to wish me good night before I go to bed, and she's always returned from her drunken exploits by the time I brush my teeth. While I resent her for this, I feel like she does it because she feels insecure in herself and needs me to validate her existence. One can only have one friend for so long before she thinks she is going completely mad.

I do not know if she approves of what I do; I feel she holds herself in higher regard because she doesn't have to work like I do, she can just rely on my money. After all, I buy her makeup. Still, she will occasionally sympathise with me, consoling me when my pieces aren't published, helping me through a broken heart or two. Very considerate girl, Lily is. She helps when she can. Yet there are times when she looks at me and shouts: Why are you this way? Why can't you be more like me? Why can't you be normal? She tears at my self-concept like no other. Her words hurt even more because she puts them in my mouth. She feeds me doubt. I don't like this.

Even worse, there are times when friends greet me, "Oh, hello, Lil--I mean, Natasha." Her name, not mine. I know it's not such a serious concern, but for a moment, I fool them into thinking I am my twin. This very thought confuses, frightens, and secretly astounds me. Who could ever confuse me with the wonderful, intelligent Lily? Who wants to be plain old Natasha, eating some noodles alone, when you can be Lily, who secretly applies smoky eyeshadow when I'm not looking and dances until her feet hurt and stumbles home sometime in the wee hours of the morning?

Although I love Lily greatly, I fear my relationship with her. Too often do I lay awake at night, immobile, wondering to myself if I am normal, if it's a matter of sanity. Is this reality, the world I live in, or am I Lily's own made-up twin, haunting her mirrors the way she hangs around mine? Moreover, who decides these sorts of things? I have asked Lily. She doesn't know, either. She only knows what I know, or so she says.

The question remains: has Lily also written this essay in her world, too? Is it as good as mine? Is she better? Will I always be outplayed by a shadow, or have I become the shadow myself?