I'm not talking about domestic violence in the modeling industry. No! I'm actually talking about something more trivial but incredibly close to me. I'm talking about affectionate hoarders like myself who hold onto items of clothing that really should take a long-awaited vacation to the bin.
The question that I've been pondering is why can't I part from the seemingly seam-loose trainers or the bright red jumper with more holes than a car door in Brixton? They're not necessarily fashionable any more and I certainly cannot continue to say 'oh it's vintage' when Vintage really means a survival of a passed era. Mine look like they barely survived a passed war.
I'm fond of my clothes, even if they are deteriorating in fabric. Perhaps it's my poetic nature or my passion for anything that tells a story of experience or achievement. Or maybe, just maybe, that it reflects that I'm not ashamed of my own flaws and holes and loose stitches, that, although I groom and take pride in my appearance (coughs - vanity), I am not afraid to share my experiences, highlight my mistakes and bare my battles. It's as if wearing my degrading garments are a coat of armour proudly being showcased.
It's obvious to those who know me that I wear my heart upon my battered sleeve and I also hope that I will never change. I may discard my clothes eventually but by that time I'd have captured the very essence of how I felt when I wore those clothes, or listened to that piece of music or smelled that fragrance. As it stands, memory is just a large archive of associated experiences and I wish to never forget al
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