It’s when the trimmings and finery slowly come off,
revealing a glimmer of bare skin underneath,
seemingly simple, wearing one’s own.
Where layered up in borrowed bedizened garbs
they are marked out as otherworldly, only for owning
not themselves, not their wealth, or even their possessions
but an ostensible fame,
the existence of which hangs loosely from a thread of notoriety.
For when they march out on coloured carpets,
looking campy yet in uniform gowns of tulle and metal;
all reaching for higher levels of distinction in a disconcerting congruence
as men and women walk beside them
with simple jobs of turning their trails and vanishing into thin air,
only to be noticed for their astonishing non-existence
and so they pose in a combined effort to turn heads at their quotidian lives
to the edges that swarm with crowds
that aim to lose more of their own identity, to pick up the thrown pieces
and become an amalgamation of discarded identities.
For when worn off pieces are sold off as avant-garde
that bring back ideals of a long gone era
for the less breathable is the epitome of beauty,
and their minimal efforts at highlighting the casual comfortable
are applauded as voices rising against an illusory tyranny.
For they set up their own big brothers in opulent dystopian worlds
That shun the ordinary—for being just that.
That how mysteriously unremarkable is their facade of appearances
that inaccessible is now the new modest,
and modest is none.