Silk to chiffon to ponte, cotton to jersey; swirling botanical patterns and block colour. Deep reds and blues and greens, a surprisingly lovely and gentle navy, teals and purples, a great amount of black. These are my beautiful dresses that never get an airing. They are a silent reproach to my inertia, the somnolent grab for the clothes that I am used to, the ones that politely apologise for the visual space I might take up.
In the course of a great wardrobe clearout yesterday (read: one bag for the charity shop, an emptied wardrobe and three large mugs of tea later), it occurred to me; I have stopped dressing like myself. I can easily tell you how, but the why of it is rather tangled.
This does not seem like a particularly great way to go through life. I am no longer satisfied with leaving all the colour and playfulness for my sketchbooks and my finished work.
Yesterday I told myself, take a deep breath, and wear that dress. The earth will continue working away on its axis, the sky will not fall, people will not stare in horror and cover the eyes of small children. The likelihood is nobody will notice, or someone on the street will remark to themselves on what a lovely colour or pattern it is in between coffee-coffee-coffeethoughts and oh-god-the-email-is-mounting-upthoughts and go on their way.