I once had this platform to share things I didn't necessarily want to share. Share a period of mine that has never been mine to share since it was everybody else's. A time where grammar was my bigger strength than fashion, showing off my outfits, doing faces of which I couldn't describe the reflected feelings anymore. Feelings that were mine but for others to interpret. But who am I to talk about feelings here. Here, a fashion blog of a 15 year old boy that just wanted to share his face with the world, who wanted to be recognized. The more I wrote about what I was wearing, the less I wanted to. The more I wanted those words that spread their wings to fly off the tip of my fingers in some small messy bedroom of a 15 year old boy that just wanted to share his face to the world, that just wanted to be recognized on the street, in malls and other public places by those young people that, had known nothing to admire of me but my face. That messy bedroom was messy due to the large amount of freshly laundered clothes he spread all over his floor deciding what to wear to school today living in Germany, a country with no uniforms for school.
So he wrote but knew that a single written word that didn't just happen to get viral couldn't do anything for him. Nobody would read those words, dressed in long captions for artsy Instagram posts that didn't have any deeper meaning but the caption written below it. So he wrote, starting with songs to express his desires, singing them to the people they were meant for. To send a message directly to them without having to say a word. To tell the world what he was feeling but barely anyone wanted to listen. With listen I mean really listen. Listen to the words that he was singing because it were he wanted to reach to them. The meaning behind his endless amount of metaphors but barely anyone really listened. So he wrote. He gave up on wanted to send a message, thought about the big, about the accessibility of his songs to the public ear, the interpretations one could have of his metaphors as he sang about falling from the moon back to earth. About the cultural differences this world brought with it, the different meanings of proverbs and sayings. But still, his songs were always messages of issues so small, barely worth addressing. So he wrote. He wrote for himself. Songs only sang to those willing to listen and eventually shed a tear. He wrote in metaphors unable to interpret for anyone in the captions of his Instagram account because only he could now what it meant to go too close to the sun. Moon was too easy.
This once was supposed to be a letter of reformation. It has become a letter of confession and non dedication of dreams.
