The Street.

The street.  It both takes inspiration from, and is the inspiration for the runway. It is the chicken.  It is the egg.  It acts as the mouthpiece for the thousands of Londoners who roam the city without saying a word to one another. It is me.  It is you. It has no rules.  It has no winners. It is a reflection of who we are.  To say that every street is a catwalk is a cliché.  To say that every street is my catwalk is honest. It is life.  It is love.  It is a billion pound industry.  It is how I portray myself to you.  It is how you understand me.  It is art.  Love is art.  Sex is art.  It is the dress from the department store that everyone has.  It is the vintage t-shirt that no one has.  It is confronting the world. It is not a chore.  I smile at you because, although I do not know you, you have made an impact on my day.  It is standing out.  It is blending in.  It is because I don’t care where you are from.  It is neutral ground.  It is what we have in common.  I look at you because by nature we are connected.  By habit we are disconnected.  I look from afar.  I look from behind your paper.  Can we be friends? It is whatever we want it to be. It is fashion.  It is style.  It is organic.   It is a sense of belonging.  It is a sense of family.  Is it because you are from East London that you dress like that?  It is trying too hard.  It is not trying hard enough.  It is because I woke and thought this top would look good with these trousers.  It is because in five years time I will look back and wonder why I ever thought that top looked good with those trousers.  It is because I want what you have.  It is jealousy.  It is admiration.  It is a compliment. It is because for 10 years of my life my mum dressed me.  It is because I can do what I want.  It is because I think I am the next Vivienne Westwood. It is because I am the next Vivienne Westwood. It is the beginning, the middle, and the end.   It is what it is.