I never care much about what’s on my dress, as long as it is colorful and weird enough. But just the other day, I realized that the peacocks on my dress actually do some chit-chatting. It’s funny, I could hear them just as if they were right beside me. I might have been drinking too much, they say.

“She’s definitely going to do that again.”

“What? The same thing? Isn’t she tired already? One must be indeed too dumb or too desperate to not be able to unbind from that whole situation.”

“It is her we’re speaking of…so I’m guessing it must be both.”

“Look at her closet. She keeps making the same choices, after all. In all that mess and chaos, there’s always a pattern. She cannot survive outside one.”

“But at least she’s not struggling to hide much now. It’s official. She’s on to something, and that’s never good. It kills her, going halfway, never going somewhere to its very end. Or is it just the way people do it? There’s no such thing as ‘perfect’ or ‘accomplished’. Not even ‘wrong’ or ‘failed’. There are just too many ways of looking at it.”

“Whatever. She’ll go out and get drunk, pretend that she’s doing spectacular, that she is, in fact, spectacular. Hm, how tragic, bla-bla. Why can’t she ever take those shoes off?!”

“They make her stick to an artificial height. But she’s awfully short. And her hair looks like hell. Hey, what do we know? People stick to their shoes because they want to be seen a certain way. She is different when her feet rest in sneakers.”

“I haven’t seen her in sneakers, so neither have you.”

“Right, alright, she wears brogues, seemingly she hates sneakers. ”

“Irrelevant. I still don’t get the point of this conversation.”

“The point is, we’re here because she picked us. Or we picked her. Or it might be either way and both ways at the same time. We have our tails convoluted on a shabby ’80s robe which is obviously too big for her skimmed body. And then she takes these pictures, with her wearing this cheap rag, and the next thing you know, some random people look at us and have some sort of reaction. It is totally pointless, if you ask me. Why would anyone want to make an impression? Why care to be judged by someone you don’t know or might not ever meet? Why wear such a robe with us on it? It’s all so peculiar, and massively pointless.”

“But we’re here. Better than that sack of rags, right?”

“I sure hope so. On one side, someone’s always laughing.”

 

*Wearing Topshop platforms, vintage necklace, Six sunglasses, everything else – thrifted