Faith is The Fashion

I believe in my choice. To be here. New York. Deep in the bowels of my gut, my decision is founded in faith. Unfortunately, lately I'm finding faith in myself to be lacking. I arrived in Brooklyn Heights, suitcase filled with my midwestern motivation and drive. The rest of my life was bubble wrapped in boxes somewhere over the Great Plains. Invigorated with the passion of everything new, I dove into my simple life head first; it appears upon later inspection that perhaps I should have taken greater care to fill life's pool first. It only took moments for the dust of whimsy to clear, revealing a colder world in which I would have to fend for myself in a way unfamiliar to the senses.
I keep trying to make the struggle look a little prettier. Others seem to do a damn fine job of glorifying it to no end. They write songs about it. Make movies about it. Fall in love over it. Barf. There is nothing beautiful about trying to pull oneself back together after their shitty, humble, beginnings. The struggle is hardly artistic. Let's be honest; it fucking sucks. And all the subway poet-types can just kiss my ass over it. The hardest part is maintaining some semblance of authentic nature within the wind tunnel.
In Manhattan, the fashion status-quo changes every 7.5 minutes. As in, I enter the subway a trend savvy diva, and come back out SO ten minutes ago. It can be very intimidating if one lets it – and I did for a millisecond. How easy to feel inferior when confronted with a herd of uniform firm asses with "7 for All Mankind" slapped on and staring me in the face. When just that morning I had been pleased as punch pulling on my $6.49 Old Navy sale rack find, the afternoon finds me tying a J. Crew outlet sweater around my waist. Whatever. It's a retail name dropping game, and I want to play too.
So, after getting myself in serious credit card doo doo and then returning it all, I begin the process of letting it go. So what's the actual truth of the struggle? I can't even afford the Starbucks coffee everyone totes around with tourniquets. I brew coffee at home (one step up from Sanka really) and pack my lunches and dinners. Until the day comes I end up on Wheel of Fortune or I'm a diva superstar, my style shall be cultivated with the wardrobe I already own. It's enough. I knew that before. New York made me forget who I was for a moment, making me believe I had to be everyone else. That's never really worked for me. Maybe I'm so last year. Or, perhaps I'm so two years from now. One really never knows. Meet me a few subway stops down and we'll see what the fashion holds. I have faith things should look better for me by then.