Predicaments of a Fashion Lover: On Fear and Writing A New Era

I wake up every morning and I’m writing. I have a coffee in my hand, shampoo lathering in my hair, the sun creeping up through my window. Every moment is like a 90’s romcom playlist blaring in my head, but instead of songs it’s words. Words I create myself, be in in a form of a poem or an investigative piece; the dots come together and it’s a moment of pure genius. These things I’ve tossed around my head suddenly, and vividly, make sense.

Yet, this again changes.

A sentence mulled over and over until it loses meaning. A phrase at first so delicious and perfect, becomes stale and dismissive. The lust becomes lacklustre. The chase ends at a disappointing stop.

Some writing scares me, for reasons I haven’t quite grasped yet. I think of the weight in each word as I put them out into the world, thinking “is this the right way? Could I say this better? Does it even make sense?” I fear expressing myself wrong, wondering exactly how writers manage to make things just so, finding the most suitable phrase without rambling. How they condense. How they don’t get scared on people not getting it.

Even when I’m not physically writing, pen on paper or fingertips on keyboard, I’m writing. I’m always writing; scribbling words out in my head, drawing lines through sentences. It happens most when I do the mundane tasks, like cleaning or being at work. By having my body busy, my mind has time to process fully and luxuriously what it’s been desperate to do. It increases by tenfold when I have someone as a muse, writing phrases I never once understood but then I do. When I think of them, it all makes sense, be it a romantic or a platonic relationship, it all makes sense. Tossing ideas back and forth before chucking them overboard. Sometimes I write and write, letting it flow. After I feel elated, I couldn’t be happier. But then I stop.

I stop doing the things I’ve only just spoken about in my writing, as if immortalising these habits kills them off. The gears stop. I don’t know why. It seems as though the more I confess, the more lost I become. I cannot find salvation in my words, for I’ve given them over to someone else. They’re no longer mine, but something that can be read on a screen around the world, picked apart and ridiculed. Something that can be used against me, or something which creates a division between me and a partner. And it does. They dig. Find out more than they should. And I’m the one who loses, because sometimes people cannot really understand the need to have a space in this online world for only yourself. And this is where it becomes tricky.

It’s like when I think about something I desperately want to happen, I imagine a person maybe or an event, every conceivable thing happens to stop the one thing I want from happening. I stop liking the person as soon as I see they again, even though my heart tells me how much I miss them. I pass over an event which could lead me into the event I want to experience. The dreams I dreamt up shatter before my eyes. The lust is lost. The desire dissipates. Is the Universe playing a big YOU THOUGHT on me, rising my hopes so high? Does the consistent let down make the words stop being how they were?

I cannot find salvation in my words, for I’ve given them over to someone else.

You see, I adore the connecting on the Internet. I’ve met some very special people through Twitter, as well as strengthening my relationships with people physically in my life through social media. I love my life, the people I share it with, those who make me laugh more than possible so I’ve just got to share that happiness. I want everyone to see. I want to say ‘look! Look and how funny and fantastic this person is! Appreciate them! Because I don’t think my appreciation is enough, because they are so bloody great.’ I will snapchat silly moments with friends, I’ll take videos of those I care for, because I’ll be sitting down one day and it will all feel more difficult than I thought possible. Those moments of happiness, of simple silliness help ease the pressure off my chest when it feels a little harder to breath, to think, to focus.

I think it’s the confessional nature of my writing; I use my words to connect to people, to show how we all feel the same at some point, even if it feels like we don’t. I’ve yet to implement a strong enough filter, to grappled with who is my confidants and who is my audience. At this time, it feels as though the World is walking on Her tip toes around broken glass. She feels so fragile, like there are splinters across Her happening we don’t fully comprehend. And that’s a reason I struggle with writing, because there’s SO MUCH out there. So much. Every time I click on my Twitter feed it feels as though I’m being swept away by the news, by the fears and the panic. I don’t want to add to it sometimes, I can admit that. Why add onto this fragile system, of panic and worry piled on top of each other like Jenga blocks?

On Fear and Writing A New Era

A sentence mulled over and over until it loses meaning. A phrase at first so delicious and perfect, becomes stale and dismissive. The lust becomes lacklustre. The chase ends at a disappointing stop.

I cannot find salvation in my words, for I’ve given them over to someone else.

So what’s the solution to this? I dig deeper. I find out what exactly it is I want to say, I edit, I create my art primarily for myself. I get back to my roots and I centre myself there.