Dear Journal

January 1st - New Years Day

Dear Journal,

You know, here's the funny thing about life. Nobody knows what you're going to get.

New Year's Eve is supposed to be a good thing but I'm just not feeling it. I find myself at a crossroads, teetering on the brink of desperation and fatigue as the new year approaches with the speed of a bullet train.

Carla, my ever-persistent and loyal colleague, pulled me aside last week and told me that if I don't produce anything worthwhile, I'll be fired as creative director of Haus of Lyon. I've given everything to make this brand succeed. Blood from my veins, sweat from my pores, and tears from my interns. (I don't cry...I'm not the type. Don't believe all that toxic masculinity nonsense, I'm a very secure man who knows what he wants.)

I've dressed everyone from celebrities to royals. I never believed in being humble where credit is due, I am what makes Haus of Lyon.

Arrogant, I know. But arrogance is just another form of confidence. And I may have too much of it...

Which brings me to my current predicament.

Tell me. What is the point of a star that does not continue to shine? It's nothing more than a useless form of gases and rock hurling towards an unforgiving black hole. (I'm great at metaphors. My therapist should be proud that I'm expressing my creativity.)

The creative spark that once fueled my fashion designs has dimmed to a barely perceptible glow.

The pressure to innovate, to captivate the ever-fickle audience, weighs heavily on my shoulders. For months, I've struggled to conjure the visions that once flowed effortlessly from my mind to the sketchpad. Emily—my wonderful ex who—has left my heart in shreds and my ambition nothing more than an ember in a once bright pyre. 

She wielded the knife she stabbed into my back so perfectly that she could be called an expert. I hate the thought of even mentioning her. I didn't know what hurt worse—my heart or my bruised (destroyed) ego.

But I think I might have some hope.

As I said, life is funny that way.

Last night, amid the revelry of New Year's Eve, I felt like a shadow of my former self. Surrounded by laughter and celebration, I stood apart. It was then, as midnight approached, that she appeared.

Her name is May.

I didn't get her last name because I was a bit preoccupied with having my mind blown. (Not in that way. Get your head out of the gutter.)

She moved through the crowd with an ethereal grace, her presence commanding attention without demanding it. (Like Moses parting the Red Sea.) There was something timeless about her, a blend of elegance and mystery that drew me in. She wore a dress that seemed to shimmer with the light of a thousand stars, and I couldn't help but be captivated.

It was over the moment she sat on the couch next to me with a drink in one hand and a brightly coloured scarf in the other.

We spoke for hours, her voice a soothing balm to my troubled mind. She talked about art and beauty, about the importance of seeing the world with fresh eyes. It was as if she could see straight into the heart of my struggle, offering wisdom wrapped in enigmatic charm. May picked me out in a room full of much more interesting people and I've never been so captivated before.

Now...I truly believe in not looking a gift horse in the mouth but I could not help but peak a little.

She worked for Tesoro.

It's a pity since they can't appreciate beauty if it falls from the sky. Neither can the creative director who I definitely don't want to talk about.

Speaking with her is like listening to an angel. I can't help but kneel at her altar and take every word from her like it's gospel.

What a shame she works under him!

May reminded me why I fell in love with fashion in the first place. She spoke of colours, textures, and the stories woven into every garment. Her perspective was both refreshing and familiar, reigniting the passion I feared was lost forever. By the time the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, I felt a flicker of inspiration begin to stir.

I only have one regret. I should've kissed her but she disappeared before the countdown even started.

As I sit here now, recalling our encounter, I can't help but feel a renewed sense of hope.

May was more than a muse; she was a catalyst, a reminder that creativity is not a well to be exhausted but a river to be rediscovered. Today, I will return to my studio, armed with the echoes of our conversation and the belief that perhaps, just perhaps, my best work is still ahead of me.

I'm going to make Tesero regret messing with me. But first...I have a few cards up my sleeve.

May is Cinderella but I'm no Prince Charming.

Much to do,

- Alexander