Sucked into the material world

It is not enough. It never is. All your life, you've been wearing hand-me-downs. But it will be over. Soon. Today, you will be a model, strutting down the catwalks between showrooms, an accidental actor in the grander scheme of things.

You pick out your best hand-me-down. It demands attention, it demands servitude. You throw on your best heels and exude a perfume of elegance.

You feel mighty fine. You feel in control. You feel as if you can proudly say to Urban, "Me? I'll rate myself 10/10." With a flick of your hair, you will list out every piece of matter that clings to your body as if you were some goddess, worshipping you when they all are in fact, fighting for individual attention. You wouldn't say that you got that from a cheap sale where that item was the least tawdry. With a carefully planned careless glance at it, you will fabricate your outfit. This is from D&G. That is an heirloom. (You deliberately pause here to pronounce air-loom, the air leaps from your perfectly-painted lips.)

Somehow the world revolves around you. Even before you flicker your eyes over their alters, they see you coming. The atmosphere changes when you step in. You are in a position of power. Yet, it is as if the world revolves around everyone too. You are a mere ripple of a skipping stone. You see many other models around too, not unlike yourself. You realize that all of you, despite not knowing each other, are spurring each other into competition. Mannequins are not sufficient. They have long lost their value. They do not breathe, they do not flaunt, they bluntly present. These models are the ones that you need to conquer.

The glass windows, they mock you, they harshly reflect your inadequacies but yet, kindly let you in on a secret- The Elixir. You reach in and embrace that formula. And another one. And another one.

Your demonic shoes are exerting every piece of pin and needle up your sole. But those empty chairs are not for you. They warn you of the stereotype you will fit in, dare you sit. Is that all you got? They taunt.

Finally, you are bereft of strength and desire. You muster up every atom of sugar to pave the way home. The bags bounce off your flabby calves which are a tad out of shape, don't you think? Flopping on the bed, massaging the arches of your feet, you feel a delightful pleasure arise from the tip of your toes, enveloping its warmth around your neck like a silk shawl before it strangles your throat. You let out a guttural moan that was meant to be a wondrous gasp. The moment you let out the sound, it is as if the sound was all that filled you, you're now a hollow shell of a woman. An ironic sense of nudity, you feel now.

You are naked.