I woke up. I think I can recall it being painful. I opened my eyes and y felt my body being violently ripped off of that world of fantasy I was immersed in before. In my dreams my body was weightless. In my dreams it was easy to breathe. There was no smell, there were no aching joints or future left.
I discussed with myself the possibility of not leaving the bed, of somehow inducting my body to just carry on sleeping. I tried it, I swear, but after 13 hours of sleep, that’s basically not possible. I looked through the window.
The steel gray sky, and a certain warmness in the winter air, gave me the certainty that it would very likely rain soon. My brain started activating slowly right after being able to successfully elaborate this last thought. I started thinking about reasons to leave the bed, cause now, with the recently acquired mental clearness, it’d be much easier to find them.
I remembered the e-mail. That stupid e-mail I’m waiting for. The e-mail that says that this whole agency problem is solved, and that I’m ready to go to London. But the e-mail thing, came along with a thousand blurry memories from last night. So many of them and so rapidly pouring into my brain that I could feel the walls of my skull stretching off to create the necessary space for them.
I remembered the Skype chat, and the moment I felt I was completely surpassed by the situations surrounding me. I remember bursting into tears. I saw myself walking down an empty street in the night, still crying and unable to hold my emotions up. I remembered struggling with one of the bikes that the city of Paris gently hands over to you, whose mechanism to unlock is still an unveiled mystery for me. I remembered the pizza I bought in some random kebab place on my way here. I wasn’t hungry, I just needed to eat. Food as comfort is something new for me.
I drank half a bottle of vodka once I got here after my shoot. The shoot. The shoot was cool. Everybody was very nice, not just nice, but really nice. I was a bit absent, but I guess is beyond understandable when considering the things I was holding in my head at the time.
As I was arriving to Les Invalides, I thought about the few people I can count on right now. I’ve got many friends, people I adore, and people that adore me as well. You can feel tremendously lonely anyways. Maybe we are the ones that choose how we want to feel.
I sat on the sidewalk. What am I doing here? What brought me here? Why did I let them bring me? This is pointless. Absurd. Stupid. I could be at home. I could be anywhere. I could be happy. I could be drawing on the black table, or watching movies with him.
But then, again…
When I met Alexander Mcqueen a year ago. I thought this would never get better than that. It’s stupid, I know. He was just a random guy like me, or like you, reading this post. He was brilliant in his work. He was history. He was working on a show, and I was chosen to wear his clothes. I was part of it. I was part in some kind of bizarre twisted way I had never expected to be, especially when I was thirteen and I would wake up early every Saturday, just to watch Fashion Television’s short compilation of caps from the shows.
From then on, I met some of my teenage super-heroes. I met Rei Kawakubo, and recently and very much especially, Lucas and Alber.
I might have never even crossed a word with Rei (specially since the position I’m in hardly ever allows it so), but just to be there, and see how she checks every outfit before they go out to the runway was fascinating. It’s some kind of like a childish fascination I guess.
It’s not only designers I’m happy that I’ve met. I’ve met cities; I’ve met customs, traditions and impressions. I went through a thousand crazy worth-to-tell experiences and I’ve matured a lot. I’ve met people. Awesome people. Models, stylists, students. I’ve met people like Shona and Emma, like Sinara and Vanessa, like Keno and Mr. Legs. I’ve listened to guys playing guitar, I’ve drank litters of beer, and I’ve smoked shisha and thrown presents for Lemanjá in some random stream in her day.
And then again…
Is this worth it? Is this real? Is this a life? What am I doing with myself? Where am I going, and what will I get out of this?
I might be leaving aside a whole myself. I might be loosing myself. Vanishing in little crooked streets and airplanes. Falling asleep in the metro. Running behind a plastic rabbit. Running till exhaustion, till I’m old and tired, and I can be disposed away like a used needle.
No one cares here. The system doesn’t care. You just give all you’ve got, and it might not be enough. I can feel my brain drowning on malnourishment from kebabs and under-vitamined sandwiches. I miss certainty. I can feel my lungs shrinking from cigarettes; I can feel my hand atrophying over this keyboard.
I wanted this, didn’t I? I thought it’d be amazing. I thought it’d be cool. I don’t know what is it anymore. I barely know myself, especially here, especially when I’m so fucking alone.
I roll out of bed, and grab my Mac. I go to the living room and I plug it there. I find a cereal bar in the kitchen. I feel weird. I feel empty. Last night was far more than I could handle. I slept more than I could sleep.
There’s no news from London, but luckily there’s news from him. I thought about writing something back, a worthy answer to the words of love and devotion, but my brain is still a bit blocked. I believe I have to get this other stuff out of my system first. I have to update dancing on the stairs.
My hair is sticky and dry from the products they used to style it yesterday. I have to shower. Maybe I’ll feel better afterwards. I have to cut my feet nails. I have to exfoliate my face. I’ll feel better afterwards.
I might just go for a walk, maybe to Hotel de Ville. Ice-skating.
I still feel so strange. Like empty. Like jaded. I want to paint my nails black. I’ll get some nail polish from a pharmacy somewhere. I’ll go somewhere. I’ll play music in my head for a while.
I have to take a shower. Maybe I’ll feel better. I’ll eat something. Maybe I won’t feel so empty.
