You had me in the palm of your hand
I'm a firm believer in the power of clothes. But not for everyone, for certain people who can channel and in some cases, even cultivate their specific brand of magic.
I've heard people say clothes are armor. I guess that's true in a way. Clothes are fur.. clothes are plumage. Clothes are laughter and pointed fingers. Clothes are shoulder taps and sharp intakes of breath. Clothes, in some cases, are windows to the soul.
I've developed silly secret little traditions for myself.. pants every other day. Skirts/dresses every other day. Dress down when others dress up, and vice versa.
My mom laments my love for cheap shoes but my wardrobe of glittery ballet flats and metallic Old Navy kitten heels still gets me more compliments than almost anything else I own.
My love for vintage anything will likely never die and even though I've warmed up to yellow, I'm pretty sure purple will remain my most hated colour.. reminding me of my awkward childhood self, with blue Harry Potter glasses, a too tight newsboy cap and taunts upon childish taunts.
Some things just feel RIGHT, feel like me. Sarah Slean songs, brownies and Earl Grey tea, almost anything with sparkles, two-toned hair, red and pink. Peacock feathers and silly puns. A lot of my reassurance within this crazy world comes from this self-cultivated comfort zone.
Tonight it hit like a thunderbolt. I missed him. Or, the him that he was for those few months when it was almost all rosy between us. The old apartment. Before the Prada glasses and the wine decanter. Before the designer jeans and the Jay-Z vacation. Right in between the deck with no railing (foreshadowing, to be sure) and the late-night rap video fests. For all I know, he didn't even exist in that form out loud, but I sure did dream him up in great detail then.
I've heard people say clothes are armor. I guess that's true in a way. Clothes are fur.. clothes are plumage. Clothes are laughter and pointed fingers. Clothes are shoulder taps and sharp intakes of breath. Clothes, in some cases, are windows to the soul.
I've developed silly secret little traditions for myself.. pants every other day. Skirts/dresses every other day. Dress down when others dress up, and vice versa.
My mom laments my love for cheap shoes but my wardrobe of glittery ballet flats and metallic Old Navy kitten heels still gets me more compliments than almost anything else I own.
My love for vintage anything will likely never die and even though I've warmed up to yellow, I'm pretty sure purple will remain my most hated colour.. reminding me of my awkward childhood self, with blue Harry Potter glasses, a too tight newsboy cap and taunts upon childish taunts.
Some things just feel RIGHT, feel like me. Sarah Slean songs, brownies and Earl Grey tea, almost anything with sparkles, two-toned hair, red and pink. Peacock feathers and silly puns. A lot of my reassurance within this crazy world comes from this self-cultivated comfort zone.
Tonight it hit like a thunderbolt. I missed him. Or, the him that he was for those few months when it was almost all rosy between us. The old apartment. Before the Prada glasses and the wine decanter. Before the designer jeans and the Jay-Z vacation. Right in between the deck with no railing (foreshadowing, to be sure) and the late-night rap video fests. For all I know, he didn't even exist in that form out loud, but I sure did dream him up in great detail then.