When I go to sleep, I love to dream. Not love but dream. I like to visualize what my outfit will be for the following day. I suffer from lucid dreaming so usually when I dream, it seems rather realistic. I'm stuck between the stages of wakefulness and slumber. I find myself wanting to believe that it's all happening but my subconscious reminds me that none of it is real. When I come to this realization, I study my outfit.
What is my inspiration? Shocking enough, it is love. Strange word, I know. Ladies, I know you have had that dream about that fairytale wedding with your fairytale husband to wear that fairytale dress. I feel that our realities are based on vivid dreams. Our emotions and thoughts are exemplified through slumber and can sometimes be brought to life if fate allows it. In my case, fate allows me to live my dreams. So, yes. I dream about love. I dream about that fairytale guy, the interaction that we share, and most importantly, I focus on what I am wearing. I am looking for that intimate connection between my outfit and myself. I am inspired by the way I feel when I look at myself in this outfit. Butterfiles form in my stomach and my flesh is numb. I'm flushing with delight and am forced to smile.
So. Why can't I dream about my ideal man the same way I dream about clothes? Does fashion really get in the way of my search for a life partner?
Yes. Fashion does get in the way but I choose for it to be that way. Clothing is all I know. It’s the one therapeutic solution to my mental instability. I relate everything in my life to fashion. It’s genuinely my lifestyle. I’d rather not depart from it because when I do, some unforeseen bullshit appears into my life. The last time I took my focus off of fashion and started using it towards a man, I was heartbroken. I was mortified and more importantly, I was disappointed in the fact that I left my love for clothing for another man. I focus on fashion because it helps me not steer my thoughts towards other things that are too complicated for my lifestyle. It distracts me in a positive way. I think. I’d much rather think all day about an elegant evening gown that I saw in the window of a luxurious clothing store than about a man that I ran into on my way from getting sparked up outside of the bathroom in a small coffee cafe in Lakeview on a Saturday night. It was just something that happened. Fate cannot rationalize that random unfortunate event. I don’t even know his name. Quite frankly, I don’t care to know who he is, what he looked like, why Dior Homme was his personal choice of fragrance for the night, what possessed him to kiss my hand, what possessed me to kiss him, or why he didn’t have an interest to get to know me further. The only thing I cared about was that charcoal colored tweed suit. I wanted to know where it was going, where it came from, and if I would ever see it again.
Keep Calm. I'm in love with a Donegal tweed suit.