Woke up at an odd hour and couldn’t go back to sleep. A part of my late night/early morning reverie included cursing myself for all the things I shouldn’t have said this week, the things I should have, a tired desire to live better from today onwards, and the realisation that I couldn’t possibly begin living better without new clothes.
All the ones I wear now have stopped wearing me ten years ago. Why do I keep wearing them when they have outworn me, I don’t know. It’s like I have stopped buying clothes. And yet it seems like all I do these days is put my paws on instagram’s window and salivate endlessly, occasionally (lol) buying things I don’t need also. Another red color bag, some senselessly cute bottle with a dead flower in it that came with its own fucking stool, a ceramic blue shoe that is also an ashtray, books that I am buying and not reading.
And then I have the gall to ask where is my money going, darling? Food, drinks, fucking PETROL, bills, loans, mother fucking Instagram ads man.
I need clothes. Why am I not buying clothes? And then I went and read the lovely Aysegul Savas’s lovelier essay on similar pangs- CLOTHES!
Sometimes I get a glimpse of someone in the park, in a museum, at the bakery line, and I go out to assemble all their pieces. It’s a pang to see them like that—such strangers in their perfect nests of clothing, looking so much like themselves. All this makes me feel naked, laying it out piece by piece.
Today I want to be like Aysegul’s mother who “had sets of clothes like costumes. They hung side by side, each one on a hanger with its own set. That was the thing with my mother, she always knew who she was on a given day. All she had to do was pick from left to right, Monday to Friday.”