I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever revisit these blog posts and refer to them as diary entries. The thought alone has sparked some anxiety that I'm not being forthcoming enough in my copy... I'm talking too much about peripheral details -- weather, vague emotional patterns, the act of blogging itself. Maybe I keep so much hidden because there truly isn't much to reveal. Unlike most people my age I'm both unemployed and not actively seeking a job (or a career for that matter). Even more uncharacteristically, my social life... simply isn't one. If I have to talk to another person, it's either by text or email or social media, on the elevator, in the lobby while making coffee, at the concierge desk asking for packages, while purchasing a pepsi max at the gas station next door, while greeting the bellmen, engineers, valet drivers and janitorial staff on my way in or out of the condo I now consider a safe marble cave. I'm Rapunzel in my prison tower, except I have hair extensions and Stockholm Syndrome. I choose this life. I invite no prince. Despite perversely loving my electively doorless cell, it's difficult to find pleasure anywhere. Music doesn't sound as good as it used to. Movies make me impatient. Narratives delivered through any artistic medium feel superfluous as I'm already surrounded by them by virtue of using language. So I'm frustrated. And distrustful. All in all I guess if I were to treat this blog as an honest diary to accompany my honest images, the only events I'd have to describe are my feelings. Sooooo...
Dear Diary, I like this outfit.
Zara hat, Vionnet fringe scarf, Member's Only jacket, Missguided leather top, J Brand leather cuff jeans, Etro bag
(Thank you for the lovely pics, Mama!)
Everything is infinite,