you think you're looking at me but i'm the one looking at you

standing on a pedestal like a statue of a headless greek warrior with ten others like me positioned the same and perfectly coiffed and dressed. it was in a gallery on Freeman’s alley where the cynthia rowley event took place. all you fashion people came by to admire the “pieces” on us, the models. looking up to us, just chilling in our ivory tower of fashion, while, you, the mortals were just simply there, on the oh so common floor.
from my bird’s eye view, i saw the hot pink painted toes, the leggings, the hats, the silky thinks hanging from your necks. It was marc jacobs here, chloe there, an oh, what a lovely vintage yves saint saurent blazer you were wearing!  and all of you were thinking “this is fashion, this is the bones and flesh of the industry, a presentation for the exculsive gals of wwd, elle and style.com”
watching you raveling in their summertime open toed louboutins, clic clacking away to the conversations: you ladies were totally having it. “recycled fabrics, how innovative!”. cynthia answering questions, commenting on her (brilliant, actually) collection while all the dames were seeking an answer in us, the models, like we held the key to the door of their life, the map to the holy grail. WHAT IS FASHION? Us models don’t have the answer to that silly! You are wrong mademoiselle wwd: it is YOU, no one but YOU who is more a la mode than anyone in this god damn city. YOU in your comme des garcons for h&m blazer, YOU in your balenciaga pants, YOU in your lanvin trench, YOU in your repetto flats YOU wearing mac makeup, YOU in your yoji drop crotch black pants, YOU wearing miu miu, louis vuitton, chloe, alexander wang, tom ford, balmain, dior, chanel, givenchy, jil sander, cynthia rowley  jdfgkjdhfkgjdfslkgjkdjfgjkdsfngkdngndnglkjdnsfgjsdfngkjdnsflgkjndlfkgnsdklfgnlkdfgj.

not me, standing here cluelessly wearing look number 7.