abandoned portrayals

fashion is obviously an important component of expression. the reasons behind what’s stocked in our closets and drawers are equally as special. the confidence and summoned courage derived from a stylized outfit are interwoven to form a complex wisp of looks and interactions.

in my case, this orb of reflections sits dark. if i’m truly attempting to wear clothes that match my emotional waves, then it’s often a strange assortment that would scare away any tailor. my pants are tight, yet loose. my shirts and sweatshirts are far too large for a man(child) my size. shoes are left untied as their heels drag and ricochet loose laces. the whiplash consummated by that combination of thread and leather is purposeful; i’m ripping open a viewpoint into my identity. if you haven’t guessed, i enjoy not fitting in.

is there any more effective outlet channeled to declare a claim on this terrestrial rock? maybe music, but the difference there is that people usually choose to listen to my music. especially with streaming, the days of passively accepting the playlist of a radio dj are practically extinct. but with shirts, pants, and shoes, i’m walking in and out of several fields of vision when in public. there’s almost no choice but to expose a fraction of my wardrobe.

so here lies an opportunity. it’s a chance to confront the inescapable and walk away fuller than you arrived. to aid in visualization, here’s an example.

two parallel universes feed alternate versions of myself. dimension one is basic me, while dimension two observes a fashionista. they both are in dire need of groceries. to kroger they depart. it’s a sunday afternoon when the store stands to gain a large portion of their week’s income. a.k.a. loads of hungry tummies. as i stroll through the store, will i own an assurance of my existence? or will anxiety pummel my general consensus of self into submission?

while there are various tools to battle cognitive dilemmas, why did no one alert me to the solution of fashion? maybe we all assume we’re bred with an instinct to dress from one’s heart. in my opinion, that’s far too optimistic for a planet of seven billion conscious inhabitants. more likely is the assumption that we’ve siloed mental stability from cotton and nylon stitches.

there i struggled, trudging through hardships in dimension one. until one fine, sunny landscape showered light on my family and me as we entered a fashion warehouse. what kicked off as a splurge of credit to pick out some sweatshirts has since transformed into a thick stake anchoring my ties to an education no profitable university has taught. outfits sprinkled with my recent purchasing choices circle the drain in the complete opposite direction, spinning me out of that judgemental, assuming black hole. no longer do i have to constantly suffer from the antiquated question “am i good enough?” because with sleeves and cuffs linked to the spirit inside, i remember the answer: yes.

my chic is most accurately labeled as a diaspora of abandoned portrayals. the disproportion is meant to signify my lopsided, frantic nature. my personality never demanded an overhaul. it just needed a bullhorn.

– D K T


life ends. why pretend

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