(I thought very long and hard about writing this down but I thought that is actually what I owe you – my dear readers. Honesty at every given moment. After I have read the letter last Monday my first thought was just one of pure distraction, my second of pure disappointment and my third one of pure concentration on thinking whether to write my heart and thoughts down or pretend that none of this has happened not allowing you to look inside the mind of a failing Mr.StrictlyIntimate. I decided to go with the first one – not just to show you the side of an imperfect me but also to give me a chance to let you take a quick look behind the pseudo-perfect facade I have created in order to be what I wanted to be. Always. Perfect. Always. I am not. And in the end I will have to admit that I might never be. Nonetheless, this fact will never stop me from striving for perfection. Because that is what keeps us going and makes us develop ourselves further to a person of grace and elegance and attitude. But, before I go on let me start at the beginning.)
I was always the boy who was laughed at for having dreams and aiming (mostly) for goals too high to reach. Well, at least by the non-dreaming and non-imaginative mind. I always tried to laugh people’s laughter away to give myself the chance to truly believe in myself. And I did. At least until recent events took place. This is my version of events.
British Vogue annually searches for a writing talent. Someone who combines journalistic as well as classic narrative talent in writing. I tried to participate last year but I couldn’t get myself to write a single sentence. I was blocked because I was afraid to lose. This year I took my shot because it seemed to be the last opportunity to be a part of a competition like that for one can’t enter when having reached the age of 25. So it practically was my last chance.
To participate in this competition one had to write and send in three types of texts. The first one had to be an essay about a memory that resolutes deeply; the second a piece on a current trend or a designer and the third a polemic.
There have been a few moments of doubting and not knowing what to exactly write about because I wasn’t sure how much honesty about myself and the ways of growing up in the family I was born into was appropriate. Until I have reached the point of deciding to write plainly honest about EVERYTHING. My stepfather, the way he treated me and the way it affected me towards finding myself perfectly sheltered in a world others often declare as being shallow and superficial – the fashion world.
So here I sit with a dream as shattered as Madonna’s credibility. The pain of losing and missing such an opportunity is heavy on my heart. At first I couldn’t breathe. Then I felt numb. And now I have reached a point where I have to ask myself whether to stop aiming for such a goal or quitting. But in the end I know the answer already, don’t I?
I can’t just quit. I am not a quitter. I am a fighter. And even if people may laugh even harder now they know about my failing I will walk with my head held high and my dreams up in the sky taking chance after chance. One day I’ll be where I want to be. And you will see me. And then you might stop to laugh or you might find another reason to laugh at me or look at me weirdly. But that is perfectly fine with me because I will go on. I will keep on writing my own lines, writing my life the way I want it to be. This life is my own book and I make the rules.
This song is a promise to the Editors of Vogue and everyone who read the text (or hasn’t) – YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE LAST OF ME!