Amsterdam, February 2011. The winter weather here, whilst admittedly mild, is reminding me of the last winter I experienced. And the open-minded, kind-hearted corners of the world I visited. I am so fortunate to be able to travel. Already I want to float away again on helium breath, but reality is keeping my feet grounded in Sydney. For now, at least.

Here we have a post dedicated to what I wore; for those who've come here for some degree of intellectual stimulation, I apologise. Although, I've always maintained that Huntingdale is self-indulgent.

This embroided silk kimono I found hidden between dressing-gowns in an op-shop. Like most things I wear, it didn't cost more than single-digit dollars.

I can never sustain vacuous subject matter, which is probably for the best, I could always pull off self-loathing with more flair and conviction than self-absorption.

This man was most qualified to analyse and catagorise. His diagnosis, in it's crucial form, was that I had been cursed with above-average intelligence. "Much above average", he added, handsome and young; it was sort of lovely to hear. Gently he told me, "intelligence does not guarantee happiness; in fact, it almost guarantees a level of unhappiness". He told me I was a big thinker. I told him about my contemplative struggle, at age eight, in realising that suicide might just be the meaning of life. Envy the ignorant for they'll never know the sad reality of everything, this miserable puzzle that we've cracked. Those sad people on the sad train going off to their sad lives; they've actually got it made because they'll never know.

I quite love noticing things that are so distinctive of the place I grew up (and continue to grow up, shouldn't get ahead of myself now). Took a walk in the early winter afternoon, sun sneaking behind native trees and fibro, spilling out the edges. I got my caffeine and spilled my soul in ink for a bit, then walked back home.

Whilst sitting at university today, pondering weighty matters of the universe and generally achieving nothing, I noticed how reflective I was of my surroudnings. The near-setting sun seemed to leave only blues, greys and purples in the spectrum of light, which tied together my outfit and the flowers in a most delicious way. I seem to have this strange, obsessive facet of my aesthetic that when fulfilled, say, by a coherent palette or harmonious details, delivers a lovely calm and satisfaction.

Perhaps this is why I take such pleasure in constructing my outfits. It's often more satisfying when I dress for night-time escapades, because there's an absence of the rush and artistic constraint than accompanies my morning dressing. And, whilst I despise the sick irony of this, I actually feel more comfortable dressing unconventionally. On high rotation at the moment are silk kimonos and tops from foreign eras. My inhibitions regarding clothing come down to feeling 'fat' (in inverted commas for it's high subjectivity) which is an entirely separate thing to fearing odd looks and assumptions.

I wouldn't describe myself as particularly edgy or cool. Rather, I think I'm attuned to visual fluency, and take genuine pleasure in what is literally just putting on clothes.

So Pierre was distracted by his cigarettes and heartbreak, breathing it in deep and holding on to the poison. He'd cultivated the perfect technique for sucking that gas-bar totally dry of it's nicotine, pushing it himself from lungs to veins to brain, eyes dropping at the spin. 'Completely fucking addicted' he muttered. To his tobacco or his girl, I didn't know.

Slick hair was an irony against scuffed leather and dishevel. Bandana around his neck, a makeshift cravat. I could hear it; gentle smack of the lips, inhale, grey air rushing through the bronchi. Out it comes with a sigh.

'Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ'.