Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

I am sliding back into black, and that is not good. I wore a black tee shirt and black pants today, although I also wore a white cotton jacket. Notwithstanding the white jacket, I am sliding back into black clothes, and that is not good. Last summer I wrote off the black clothes. I told myself to perk myself up with color; I admonished myself for dressing to hide and not dressing to at least state that I am here. And for a whole year I eschewed black tops; but today, today I just couldn’t face white or purple or brown or stripes. Black, that’s how I felt. And even though I am from NYC, I did not feel chic in my black ensemble, I felt, well, bleak. It was a lusterless outfit, and it made me feel that way.

Maybe that was the point: I thought that I would be comfortable back in black but I felt subconscious. Even though I am going through a dip, I was not comfortable seeping back into the all-black genre. Perhaps I needed to try on that old identity to see that it no longer fit (the shirt was a bit tight, but it was a medium, and even last year it was a bit too fitted). I don’t want to be wearing all-black; I don’t want to force the depression onto me and into me. I want to brighten myself up, not match the inner mood on the outside. I don’t want to let myself go; I don’t want to feel comfortable in clothes that hint at doom and gloom; I don’t want to seep into sadness.

But all must not be lost, since I also wore my new ivory and gray snakeskinesque sandals from which my bright red toe nails peeped out. A ray of life and brightness on my feet (which used to be the blackest part of my outfits, even in summer, with black shoes and black stockings). Now I need to recall how that brightness lifted me up as the shirt brought me down. I need to let the colors anchor me, and not let the bleakness drag me back down.  

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