MET GALA [ H. S ]

Every morning, I pleaded for someone to come into my life that understood the difference between being alone and feeling lonely.

My life was a privilege. I grew up in a world of fame, of constant love and hate. Yin and Yang. Cold and Hot. War and Peace.

Growing up I was constantly taught that I was already vulnerable to that side of the world, the normal. The working class. The place where I should be. I was pathetically susceptible and I wanted to get away from the unfortunate stardom that was created at my birth.

Happiness isn't familiar, it's as when in summer I miss the cold and I think I'll never feel the need to shiver again. Or in the winter I'm freezing and I'll never feel the sun blaze rays onto my skin again. It's all temporary, nothing sticks.

Too many emotions for a little weak girl that is an industry of powerful strong men.

Did I have the courage to show Hollywood that I didn't care how I was thought of? To show that the I, Jeanne Wintour, wasn't so fragile?

That I could actually stop the belittling in my head and could eventually turn to love the loneliness. To turn towards the dark and stay away from the flashes. When my photo is taken, I can't decipher the lines between the spurts of light and dark. I don't know who wants me for me. I can't recognize respect. It's all and unwanted mind game.

In admits of dealing with my unyielding job, I am assigned the role to mimic the opener of the oscars. The promised comedic relief, alongside and equal to Hollywood's beloved, to host the Met Gala with Harry Styles.
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