It’s no secret how lackadaisical I’ve been feeling. All year I’ve felt completely uninspired, confined and so unsure. I’ve been unsuccessful in diagnosing the obstacles at hand and in procuring an antidote for liberating myself from this fog and lingering cloud of uncertainty. The past few days I’ve felt an incredibly strong desire to get my hair professionally styled and the need for new summer clothing. And with it I’ve come to realise that perhaps part of the problem pertains to my actual sartorial style of late.
Or it’s lacking thereof.
And though I don’t consider myself defined by fashion and “things”, we do live in a material world and I am no doubt a material girl. It took me many years to “prefect” my sense of style and correlate to what resonated within my soul. Since then I began using fashion as a way to express what I couldn’t say aloud. And that’s where my problem now lies because lately my true self has been repressed. And because of this I don’t recognise myself anymore.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt this way either. I’ve found myself disoriented when capturing my reflection against a glass window. Stepping out of home wearing a striped tank and thinking “wait, this isn’t me”. I’ve thought the same thing countless times as I passed the oversized mirror in the powder room. The girl who looks back is overly tired, bags under her eyes and pain lining those green irises.
She’s weak, invisible and unrecognisable.
Because in what I’ve worn lately there has been no hint of edge nor tenacity, just basic high street conformity. And with that my inner anarchist has dissipated and vanished. A massive chunk of who I am just faded. This girl who stares back at me blends in with the masses, with a sea of Zara and H&M (who am I kidding here? As if I could afford either). There’s no longer anything unique or interesting about her, nothing distinguishable; she’s just as dull and listless as the colour in her untamed hair.
I never wore certain items for attention or because I could afford to splurge on brand names nor did I don such things to stand out. I wore them to express something words could not; who I was inside. And that was a girl shrouded in mystery. Who lives with darkness, who’d been battered and bruised but somehow overcame it all with strength while chasing freedom. Or something along those lines. Instead of wearing my usual edgy and tough rock n’ roll type pieces I’ve opted for plain Jane and with it morphed into something preppy. There is nothing wrong with preppy or plain Jane, but they’re not me. And in not being able to style myself with strength and armour as I normally would because it just isn’t financially viable, I’ve lost that part of me. And I know that sounds silly to some, materialistic maybe, but it’s true.
For me at least.