The scarcity of ethnic models in high fashion platforms offends me. The worst part of it all is that those few famous for representing the unimaginable amount of diversity innate the word black* are expected to imitate western standards. Straight hair. If not, a collection of purchased hair to fit the description. “But why?”
Pop Africana., bStore magazine, fuck yeah ethnic models.
The spook “paah!” sound of a pooped balloon marked the most exciting part of my month. This only reveals my misery in having to abandon the liberal essence of my existence. I am not happy. I am happy. I am not happy enough. That’s just it. I live to express passion, instead of fulfilling duty in this time of tension between life and death. Is that so bad? I live for excitement. I miss that.
To shame, with the fact I haven’t felt the need to dip in the Atlantic Ocean. Sad really. Been living in Cape Town for almost a month and my time has been scattered unwisely. Forgive myself? I shall, because having no friends to share the experience would make the effort unpleasant.