Originally Posted: July 13th 08
I have realized (through a very intimate conversation while walking on Bryant Street) that for the last 3 years, I have woke up almost every morning and put on something I’m told to wear. Before that, I wore clothes that represented a fraction of me, with varying levels of thought to how i would be perceived. Before that, I wore school uniform, and before that, my parents dressed me.
Before that, I was in a nut sack. And that’s no fun.
It hurts someday’s to think that clothing can mean so much. I mean, its just cloth that covers your body so that people don’t gawk and gander. But really… is that all it is? Its the first thing people see on you; its the billboard across your chest with “sexy” or “I love your boyfriend”; its the Ed Hardy tattoo graphic tee that cost more to buy than to make; Its the american flag on the shoulder of a young man who grew up in an area that feels no freedom; Its wearing gray, green, and brown uniform, featuring an arrowhead and a buffalo; its hating your uniform, and often your employer, but sucking it up because you need the paycheck connected to it all.
Someday’s its selling out…
Someday’s its redemption.
It always means something…
Or does it?
I mean, it really is just clothes after all.
Pay me no mind, its one of those days.
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