I love fashion; the art of covering the body, of hiding or accentuating. I'm no stylist. Rather, an intensely visual person who takes genuine pleasure in the aesthetics of it all. But lately, I've felt my sense of style wane such that it's detracting from my peace of mind. Each day features a minor change to an otherwise formulaic composition (full-length skirt, tee knotted at the waist, the same boring flats). This regression to essentially the same outfit cannot be explained by a lack of clothes; my room is bursting. More than anything, I think it's a sign of the rush I've existed in lately. Panic and rush; revert to safe and predictable.

I know it's nothing and I'm nothing and nothing anyone wears truly matters when the cosmos is considered (personally, this happens with a dangerous regularity). But I'm also quick to dismiss the little things that make me happy, or calm, or peaceful. If I resist trivialising it, make a small effort, and actually enjoy the cultivated tonne of clothing I live amongst, good things might happen. Maybe.