quiestnina

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Poisoned by my storm

Your city looks so different without you holding my hand, lovely. Rose-tinted glasses on the back of my nose painted it bright in the slow-burning heat of last July. Sometimes, I wonder, how you’ve been. How your life has evolved, and if letting me go was the only choice you truly ever had. After we called it quits, I cried to every song that reminded me of you, and whenever the train passed through the gates of your town, a small knife stabbed me in the stomach. Crazy, how life feels like when you are hurt, doesn’t it?

Remember, when you were my baby and we were just kids deciding to be lovers in a hotel room? Your blue eyes glittered away the blue that was spreading over my soul, the touches were infectious, and a weekend, so limited seemed to be unlimited, somehow. Two heartbeats failed to be synchronised, I wrote a million poems about our failed romance. I cried the whole summer away, I ran away from the shreds we left on the minefield. I constructed you on a vision, radiating in the brightest green, just like Gatsby’s light at the other side of the lake.

I kept my green light burning for the longest time, and when I ran into you today, it was strange. I fantasised about this moment for weeks. In my mind, a vision of us, holding onto each other kept me alive in the cold nights after we called it quits. The months passed, and I forgot how your touch felt on my skin, I forgot how your lashes looked like in the morning and how your kiss felt on my left shoulder. When my words about you started to thin out, everyone congratulated me like I had accomplished something extraordinary. Breakups happen every day, just like Taylor said, so moving on was what I had to do, it was what you pushed me to do by pushing me away from you. All the visions I had of us bumping into each other were different from reality. Now, you are a stranger, I met one day after New Year’s day when in summer, I wanted nothing more than to spend New Year’s day with you.

You were my all too well, the vision I created of someone else, rather than accepting the reality. The sound of your voice is still the same, but now, it reminds me of pain, and not of home. Did you forget all the moments we shared? Did you forget how crazy you used to be for my smile, boy with the shiniest eyes in town? Running into you was worse than letting you go, waves of lost intimacy dictated the course of our conversation. I couldn’t say how much I wanted you back when the nights were short, and how many times I screamed your name like a curse word when I was driving through the woods. Your eyes, still as beautiful, but where has their spark gone, what did I see in them? Why does the blue of them just look like the colour these days and not like the most beautiful projection of the ocean humankind has ever seen? Is it buried under mediocre skyscrapers and swallowed emotions? You look as mundane as the dullness of an Instagram live stream during quarantine, the only emotions you evoke in my body are anger and resentment, making my blood boil to a million.

I want to know who came after me and took care of your fragile heart. You claim yourself to be a bachelor now, the loneliest of them all. Enchanting, the sound of your voice, when you pronounce your current relationship status. Why did you think I’d never move on, did you secretly wish to be the subject of my poems until your dying day? You are a banker, confined in skyscrapers that scratch the grey of the atmosphere, wondering if this is all life has in store for you. I am a hopeless dreamer, writing my lovers into characters until my fingers bleed, I cannot deal with attention or too much affection, one kiss too much and I’ll run out the door. What did we have? A whirlwind love affair, I was your favourite best-kept secret, and you were mine. I thought we’d be more than just a notion, so I never told you how miserable you made me in the darkest of my nights. For me it was real, it was fucking real. All the words I said were true, every time I touched you, a little firework exploded in my system. All the dreams I had, there were true, too. All the times I cared, it was genuine. After we called it quits, I continued to live with the naivety that you felt the same. When it was real for me, it was a game for you. Every sentence, every touch, every kiss was a part of it. For you, it was never as real as it was for me.

The memory of the second weekend in July will always tie our messy souls together, just like an invisible string. We will evolve, but the memory will always stay the same. Immortalising it on paper, I want to tell you so desperately, that there was someone after you. Someone so special, he treated me with respect, and never took my touch for granted. I probably dissolved into one of your fantasies, visiting you when the time gets late and the temperature inside your body gets hot. Do you ever miss the softness of my chestnut brown hair running through the knuckles of your fingers? You cross my mind every time I spot the Dolphin hotel in the back of a dusty bookshop, buried between all the other memories you tattooed on the back of my head. I hear your voice when I taste brownies that had the same sweetness as yours, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, you are my favourite ghost.
I was crazy about you in the heat of July, now I am sad looking at the image of what we have become. Weird chemistry in the air, heaps of lost intimacy surrounding us like a ghost and whilst the ship was broken and buried, we carried on doing small talks about our careers. I was mourning the connection we had, I wanted to ask about your family, what you think of Lorde’s new album and how you really are. I wanted our souls to touch again, but what I got what a crash of bones, from the bachelor who lost his most favourite bachelorette. Breakups are never easy, but you couldn’t handle that there was another man touching me after you did, one with way more grace and contentment than you could ever hold in the tips of your fingers.

You wanted the clean-cut, which one do you mean? The one so deep and stained with blood from our broken hearts? You never gave me closure, you gave me a supercut of us, like an unwanted filmreel, living in my head, rent-free forever. I stand by my words, my actions, my last touch. Just before you went, I said “Alex”. Your gaze was suddenly mine again, and I said, “I am sorry if I hurt you last summer”, and you replied with a smile, “you didn’t”. My eyes got heavy and suddenly I said: “well, you hurt me”. Confused yet unable to admit the consequences of your actions, you said “I’m sorry”. Across the bench where we used to kiss and see the world in each other’s eyes, you mumbled an apology through the gates of your lips, as heavy as steel. The sun was shining, our hands nearly touched, and maybe this is all I will ever get from you, even though it’s hard to believe that you mean the words you mumbled. As you turned your back, you ran in the other direction, rays of sun chasing your reflection until it dissolved into the transcendental.

Holding onto the Prada

What is love, in these modern times, dedicated by cellphones and lives lived through creations of ourselves that couldn’t be further away from the truth? Drawn by phone conversations, kisses at the end of the sentence, can something real truly sustain the challenges of our real lives?

If you love someone let them go, and if it’s real, they’ll come back, they say. But what if I know that it was real, despite them never coming back to me? My soul is broken and bruised, I don’t know if I have faith left inside of me. My dreams have soaked up every ounce of me, demanding every strain of energy. Now, having the life I always wanted, I mourn my losses and sacrifices like a widow worships the image of her dead husband every night at dinner. What is all this worth, I keep wondering myself. The Prada in the closet, hands full of metals, hair greased falling over the shoulders of my leather jacket whilst scrolling through the Instagram of happily engaged couples. Twenty-two seemed to be my farewell to fun, my life started to transition and I wonder whether I have missed the stop to grow up. Of course, like everyone else, I want to love. I want it so deeply, it hurts my stomach. But every time I find it, I let it go, I depart onto new adventures, and it never runs back to me. Finding myself crying to the prettiest views in a hotel room, “this is the life I wished for”, I keep internally screaming to myself.

I am tired of being the sad girl on the internet, I am tired of leaving no traces behind and I am tired of being the exciting one, not the loved one. “He was into you, cause you were exciting, he knew that you’d leave, so he wanted to pursue the girl he can’t have”, a friend told me in a commentary about my last dating experience, “you thrilled him, you drew him in as you do with everyone”, she continues in the cold white light of the bathroom. She pointed out my talent to continuously pick the ones who are scared of being a part of my life, but yet the ones who are attracted to the messy characters that make their life seem a little more exciting than the mundanity of their everyday blues. All it takes to draw them in is a smirk, more charming than anything they have ever seen before, just to end in a minefield a few weeks later.  Taylor Swift wrote 30 songs about a romance that went to the grave after three months, I write countless poems about every soul I have taken the clothes off. It gets better with time, my friend says, not knowing how much I would want him to be here, right next to me, right now. My brain has never been my friend, considering all the impulse buys and bad decisions it did let me take in the past, but when it comes to lovers, it’s cruel, it lets me bleed like a crying baby on the floor, not getting the toy it wants after suffering so long. 

In the end, dating apps are nothing but the same as luxury clothing, all they sell to is the notion of hope for a better, more fulfilled, and happier life. Dating apps promise you a love as golden as daylight when in reality, you swipe yourself into a burning red fantasy. Swiping equals creating the perfect partner, it vanishes all disadvantages of a potential lover off the table until reality creeps in. A luxury garment promises you the notion of belonging, which for some people, is the total equivalent of a better life. The imagination of a Prada scarf evokes happiness when in reality, it objectively does the same job as a thrifted scarf- it keeps the throat warm but does not protect you from anxiety and panic rushes. What the Prada scarf is the same thing you get on one of these apps- it’s excitement in its purest creation, it’s what our dopamine deprived brains are longing for in an honest moment. It both works like ibuprofen, it satisfies the brain instantly but does not heal in the long run.

I should have told him before that he will become the subject of all my poems now, the memory of his touch is the blueprint on my skin. I tried to wash him off, but every other night at 3 a.m, I find myself scrolling through his Instagram, wondering if he ever does the same with mine. I should have told him that I’d be this way, I keep thinking. I should have told myself, that we want different things, I keep screaming. I have always been this way, charming them in with the smile of someone who just came from outer space, and forever just visiting. This is a new era, someone new to write about, kicking the last one off the imaginary throne. And just like the Prada, it sold me nothing, but an illusion, that looks different in my life than it did on the screen. 

for you.

On our last facetime call, you asked for a letter. More specifically, a letter in your inbox, a week after we called it quits, from the writer you dated. You walked out of my life like a breeze after coming into it like a storm. We danced, high on infatuation, just to realise that we are too young to commit, too young to take the distance upon us, too young to keep something that’s good. I know, I didn’t send you a letter. I think about it every day since I have written one to almost each one of my exes, apart from you. The irony is that you are the only one who would deserve one. And I know, it’s foolish of me to commodify my sadness and my fragile heart, just to publish my work, and if I were you, I would be confused, too. I know, I should send this to you directly, instead of giving it to the biggest space we have, the internet. But I don’t have the guts to give it just to you. I don’t dare to slide in your inbox, I don’t dare to ask you how you’ve been, and I don’t even allow myself to think about you. Since you unfollowed me on Instagram, I felt compelled to do the same, even if I didn’t want to. I got the message, my love. It was as clear as the look in your eyes when you looked at me.

I know, we’re not talking anymore. We’re strangers now. But the thought of you is more prominent in my head than anything else. When I close my eyes, I still feel your touch or I see the way your eyes stared into mine. Your doll’s lashes, you must be god’s favourite, I keep thinking. Do you ever think of me? Probably not. You are probably dwelling on your own problems and sadness whilst reading a Murakami novel. I don’t want to think about you, I don’t even want to write about you anymore, but what can I say? From the moment you stroked my hand in the moonlight, I knew, you’d take me down.

It’s not that I have not written about you. Of course, I have. I mean, what did you expect? The truth is, all my poems, all my essays, are still inspired by the blue in your eyes, the chestnut in the colour of your hair and the softness of your lips when they carefully touched my shoulders. It was liberating to write, but even more painful to edit. I wish I could read it to you, but I am scared. We used to talk every day, and now you feel like a distant stranger. I guess I want it to be different. I know, we are doing the right thing. Doubting that the other person even exists out there in the world. Sometimes, I wonder, how it would be like if we’d run into each other one day. Will it just be like I dreamed it to be? You, getting soaked into my storm again, and staying, without moving the furniture behind my back? Or will it just be a smirk and small talk until we pretend that what we had never happened?

It’s strange to think that you don’t know who I was before I met you, and you don’t know who I am now. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could feel your fingers hugging mine once more. I wish I could soak in the way we looked at each other, just for one more time. Maybe binging Kacey Musgraves new album made me nostalgic for what I only experienced so briefly. I wanted more of that, even though I never dared to say it. There were days when all I wanted was to be in your arms, but distance sometimes cuts deeper than a knife ever could.

Every time the train stops in your town, I glaze out the window, wondering if you may stand on the platform, spotting me. In my dreams, we look into one another’s eyes, with nothing but sadness and regret. The kind of regret that cuts deep. So deep that you wish to numb it. You’d probably walk away, just like you did before.

I think of all the women you’ll meet on the internet and take back to your apartment to watch movies. All the pretty girls you’ll pull in clubs and take to your bed. All I wonder is, will they be anything like me? Will they torture you with Taylor Swift romance songs, just to show you how much they like you? Will they invite you to their place and cook for you? Will they see the stars I saw in your blue eyes? I feel nothing but jealousy for them. Jealous that they get to feel your touch, hear the sound of your voice, and taste the sweetness of your lips. It’s strange to think how easy you’ll be able to replace me. She’ll fall for you, just like I did. Deep down I hope that when you look into their eyes, you’ll see the colour of mine when you hear them talk, hear my voice and when you touch them think of how it was like to be touched by me.

A few weeks after we broke up, I kissed someone, and it wasn’t you. He was good. Better than you, but I couldn’t go home with him, knowing that as soon as someone else undresses me, I would think of you. Think of how your touch felt on my warm skin. Think of how you looked at me after our lips touched. How you took care of me, without knowing it. How we spent 24 hours together and I just kept thinking that I want a million more hours with you.

Last night, someone else held my hand, but it didn’t feel the same way. Why does everything feel so wrong, why does the only one I want not want me? I titled you as my mistake, the banker stuck in skyscrapers, risk manager failed at calculating the risk of falling, but I didn’t say that you were my favourite of all my mistakes.

When we hung up the phone, I instantly regretted my words, my accusations to you when I saw the hurt in your eyes. Of course, I said a million and one things I didn’t mean, gushed out of my anger I kept inside for so long, would this even be a proper breakup if I wouldn’t regret it after? I wanted to hold your hand, cry, scream that we should give one another one more chance. I wish I wasn’t so cold. I wish I admitted that I felt for you. Cause I did. A part of me still does, even if I don’t want it to do so. I am following all the rules, I punish myself when I think of you, and I even try to avoid self-medication. The other night someone offered me gin, and all the memories came back up again. When I was younger, seven doubles got me over any boy, but you’re different. Not even fourteen doubles would help me. You are still living rent-free in my head, and I guess that’s okay.

You soaked me in, London Boy. You caught me whilst I was lost in the dark, searching without knowing that I was searching. You took my hand, not realising you did. In retrospect, you were the first man who really liked me. You made me disrupt my whole belief system, in a good way. You were that kind of boy I’d only refer to as “the one who got away”. Boy with the shiniest eyes in town, I guess you don’t know it, but you changed me, for the better- and for that, I’d like to thank you.

dress: Ganni

And I secretly hope that I’ll be the only one you baked brownies for on the first date.

getting the cherry black lipstick out of the drawer

I always knew this day would come. From the day we sold her house and moved her into her room, a care home with bright yellow branding, and orange curtains everywhere, making the light look warm even on a cold day. Today, day X, the day where everything may come to a close after 9 decades, felt so dangerously close. When I sat next to my grandmother’s bed, mourning the closeness we lost years ago in the blink of an eye, she looked at my face, not noticing that I had recently just cut a fringe to get over a persona I no longer was. She used to look at my hands and express how much she despised my decision to paint my nails every day in jet black, instead of rosy pink like hers. She used to make comments about every single detail of my appearance, from the rings to my cat winged eyeliner, to my doc martens- something was always wrong, something always mirrored the person she never wanted me to become.

But today was different. I straightened my fringe this morning to cover up half of my face, I wore the most goth-like dress I could get my hands on and put on dark tights despite the sun tickling my skin. Post-graduation life is depressing, and today, my clothes are as dark as my thoughts. I know she does not understand the way I communicate with clothes, but still, maybe this is the deepest message I have subconsciously communicated to her.

Her blue eyes, darker than mine, nobody from afar could guess that we have similar blood running through our veins, looked around the room, searching. She looked at me, hopeful yet naïve, asking for her husband who died nearly a decade ago. My anxiety kicked in, how in all honesty, do you tell your grandmother, that her husband, the only person she has ever been with, is not here to hold her hand through all this? I might feel too much, and maybe it’s not as deep for her, but how in this world am I supposed to tell her the ugly truths about her life that her old mind has seemingly forgotten now?

When I humbly tried to tell her that her husband, my grandfather, is no longer with us, I saw her lip trembling, almost like the one of a little child, when they lost their mother in the depths of the local playground, but she is made of steel, not allowing herself to shed a tear for the truth. The only sentence coming out of her was “why did nobody tell me that?”, and all I wanted to say was, “why did nobody prepare me for this moment, why did nobody tell me how painful it is to see someone slowly but surely forget the moments that brand marked their life?”, but I didn’t.

I got my first call for grief when I lost my mother, aged only 14 years old. While others were innocently getting their first kisses in cars, I was busy swallowing the grief my young brain felt so scared of. I can talk about my mother’s illness without changing my facial expression as if I’d tell some random anecdote from my life, but catch me in public, hearing her favourite song, and nearly breaking down as if I had just gotten the message of her passing. Grief is a strange emotion, it’s so deeply rooted, and it has its own uncontrollable nature, which comes and goes in waves, just like the ocean.

dress: Batsheva

Now, eight years later, when I finally started to face my grief, the second call for it knocks on the door, louder than ever. It’s almost as apparent as a very bright ray of sun, blinding away all other emotions my heart has ever felt.

There she lies, 90 years old, more years than my mother could have ever seen, more days than anyone could ever dream of, unable to process the news that isn’t exactly news. Break the truth to her, I think, maybe then, she’ll remember more of her life that so weirdly seemed to slip through her fingers. I say, “I think” and “I guess” a lot, because the older I get, the less I feel like I know. I thought I was a genius, swallowing everyone up with my words and thoughts, but now I am just twenty-three, sitting by her bed, being so painfully kicked out of my fantasy.  I want to hold her hand, say that I am sorry, for all these years we couldn’t be close, cause I am deep down so scared of love and attachment that I cannot let it happen, but instead I just break the truth of how her alcoholic son, the uncle I have never met, died to her. Using the word “alcoholic” usually made her react strangely, since all her life, or at least the time we’ve known each other, she avoided using this label. Using the term meant acknowledging the truth, and that’s what she could never do. Until this very day, she keeps telling people that her alcoholic son died of an “accident”, not his addiction. “He died of his addiction, he poisoned himself slowly but surely”, I say. She looked into my eye, as deeply as she never did before, saying “I thought so”. How come is everything she kept so tightly under wraps no surprise to her now? Does age mean that we come to terms with our mistakes, earthquakes, regrets and unacknowledged truths?

I feel so stuck in a film reel I never asked to be part of, it feels like I am the actor who forgot his parts, and fear is reigning over the craft. Seeing her memory vanish, suddenly feels like a part of my own self vanishes too. She no longer feels like someone I knew, her mind is leaving her body, letting the outer shell float around the room like a ghost in the hallway.

When I close my eyes, I still feel it all. The sound of the old wood in her house, the cracks on the floor, the sticky air filled with heat, the sugar-coated strawberries she gave me to snack in the summer. The sound of her laugh, which I hadn’t heard in months- it all vanished, and all that’s surfacing is her own grief for the fall of the castle of her own dynasty.

It’s strange to admit that the last time she remembered everything came without a warning, just like the last kiss before a sudden breakup. You never know when it happens, and maybe that’s the terrifying part of it all.

There is so much I want to tell her, all the stories from uni, all the rankings of the boys I’ve kissed, or the countless times I’ve cried in the back of a taxi, regretting that I am so painfully more introverted than extroverted. I want to tell her how cold the Winter in Montreal feels like, how weirdly liberating it is to walk through northern rain, and how the Toronto sun brightens up even the most depressed and anxious of my days.

But how do you tell someone who can’t even remember her husband’s death stories about a world she has forgotten even exists? Change is what made us drift apart all these years ago and instead of trying to find one another, we continually swam into other directions of the ocean. We never told one another how much we loved each other, we were busy getting caught up in our own lives, her protecting her sacred reputation from the village’s voices, me being the rebel with cherry black lipstick nobody wanted me to be.

I used to be so excited for birthdays, to age another year older, another year wiser. Looking at her now, I feel so terrified of ageing, as if it’s an invisible demon in the room. I want to run back home, grab the cherry black lipstick and bleach my curly hair to hold onto what used to be. This lipstick shade, all the plateau heels and band t-shirts, a visual collection of a person she despised in me, the complete antithesis to the little girl she used to love so much.

I want to show her every piece I have written, show her every picture I have taken and all the art I have made in between. Maybe, I want to give her something to be proud of, but in the end, I am only 23, knowing less and less every day.

Melodramatic notes- getting dressed, but for who?

I am back in the blue melodrama of my teenage years, maybe that’s the magic effect of spending the majority of my time in a room I used to listen to “teen idle” by Marina Diamandis almost religiously. When I moved out here, I wanted to embark on the golden years, but as soon as I step my feet back in this room, the melodrama and teen angst is back- more present than ever.

dress- old UO archive, shirt- some concept store, bag- The Vampire’s Wife

The art of dressing, may or may not be the thing I have dedicated my life to so far. In my room, I am surrounded by rails of clothing, in my bathroom are mountains of laundry, and my browser is full of tabs displaying rare vintage pieces I’d like to own. Long story short, I guess, I think about dressing, or more precisely, getting dressed a lot. Maybe more than the average person. All the time.

It’s funny how “getting dressed” has changed in the past 18 months. If Karl would have seen the surge of sweatpants, I bet he would have fainted. Since life is this constant on and off the battle with an airborne virus, I cannot help myself but constantly wonder, who do I dress for? Is it the zoom meeting, men on dating apps, Instagram, the catholic neighbours I only glimpse when I walk the dog or is it myself?

When I grew up, the most common sentence I can recall when it came to getting dressed was “oh dear, what will they think?”. The pronoun they did in this case, not stand for a gender-neutral identifying individual, but more for an accumulation of different personas I did not have a direct relationship to, encompassing neighbours I never speak to, people I could bump into at the bus stop and classmates I couldn’t even remember the name of. “They” are, in short, a group of people, I didn’t care about as individuals. But put together, they were this imaginary army of critics, who had the destruction of my clothes set as their goal. No matter how I tried to be a rebel, there were certain days, when the word “they” was the scariest sound I’ve ever heard.

It’s weird, how I, or other people, reserve so much headspace and energy, just to see themselves in the mirror through the eyes of someone, who subjectively does not like the way they dress. Of course, we all want to be loved, at the very end of the day. Maybe we are scared deep down, of what negative emotion the way we dress could evoke in someone else. Life is delicate at times, minds can be manipulative, and the last thing anyone wants is the destruction of something real.

If you are rather anxious like me, on some days, the way you dress can either uplift you or sweep the bottom off your feet.

Since I have been back at my parents’ house, I have been wandering through my closet, partially enjoying the weird emotions of reunion with who I used to be. Sometimes, I flick through my closet and realise how many times I dressed for others, not myself. I am very guilty of dressing for either Instagram or for men, which are two things closer intertwined with one another as one may think.

Dressing for Instagram, as well as dressing for men, is connected with that infectious rush of dopamine and serotonin. Both substances, my anxious brain is clearly lacking, hence why it gets addicted to them so quickly. On Instagram, bold colours and anything rather risky is what the algorithm loves. And anything the algorithm loves is what the people love. Your sense of style gets conditioned to work for this alternative universe, dominates by likes, comments and shares. Growing up on the internet, I guess it would be wrong to deny that my sense of self-worth is not affected by “likes”. Of course, it is. Remember the Gucci Marmont bag a few years ago, which seemed to be living rent-free in anyone’s Instagram feeds? This bag is in my humble opinion a perfect example of how a piece can work well for the virtual world. On Instagram, wearing a marmot bag suggested belonging to some sort of cool online style subculture, which had contradictory to “real life subcultures” no real substance apart from the possession of an it-bag. Joining the club was expensive, firstly because of the Gucci price tag, and secondly, wearing a marmot slowly became connotated to the ultimate loss of individuality. The real question in this game here is, what do we want from viral garments? Do we really want to possess them or just be part of what they express?

Dressing for men, as I said, can be connected with dressing for Instagram, since in times of a pandemic, when every aspect of life miraculously morphed into the tiny screens, is mostly happening on Instagram. If I would have to take a shot for every picture I have ever posted just to get the attention of a male human being, I would be very drunk very quick trust me. On the internet, I felt like I could dress sexy to show them what they are missing out on or to stimulate their desire for me. Instagram felt like the ultimate weapon of control. I could wear whatever I wanted, without wearing it in real life necessarily.The result was the feeding of my male validation addiction, which is too easy to fall into, especially when you are young. There is no doubt that I (like many others) had inhaled the male gaze like toxic smoke, just for it to be forever engraved in the back of my head.This might have been the point where the persona I was on Instagram started to contradict the persona I seemed to embody in real life.

On Instagram, I show the greenest grass I can grow, I show the highs more than the lows and just generally how glorious my life is. I stopped taking myself seriously on Instagram ages ago- but just because I did that, does not mean that others won’t. My parents still look with a surprising seriousness at my profile, which never fails to stun me. I always reply, “it’s just art, or at least be trying to curate, not an accurate depiction of my real life”, which in their generation makes little to no sense. Sometimes, when I lie wide awake in bed, in the middle of the night, I imagine how my life would be like if I would actually be the person I pretend to be on Instagram. I still have no answer for this. On Instagram, I picture just a very curated side of mine and leave out the other stuff, the “melodrama” as I like to call it.  

Who do we dress for now? A question so deep and personal, unable to be answered in a single sentence. I have written more than a thousand words about it now, and oh well, I still don’t know.