on that note

In the past few days, I have been home alone (Brig is already in Cali, I'll be meeting him there tomorrow)- and what have I done? Finished reading The Host, by Stephanie Meyer.  Yawn.  Scoured the Internet for more tutorial blogs, fashion inspiration, and the like.  Nothing notable.  Then, I wrote a poem.  Jackpot.  And...She's back, ladies and gentlemen!  In the midst of my creative moment, it occurred to me exactly what had changed over the years that resulted in my noted fashion decline.  The root.  Actually, it would be more appropriate to call it an Emily decline, because that's really what happened. 

My early 20's were not exactly a gentle, charming glide into adulthood, to say the least.  For a girl who comes from an intact home with loving parents, who loves the gospel very much, and who has attempted to live my entire life on the straight and narrow path, this was quite a shock to my system.  The dreams and ideas I had upon starting this decade of life progressively and, with increasing intensity year after year, were thoroughly beaten out of me.  To be fair, though, my dreams were heavily people reliant, so they were basically destined to fail, although how was I supposed to know that at the time?  When people who stopped going to church never came back, when people I stopped dating never looked back, when people I gave everything to in their time of need never reached back, and lastly, when I never got to go back to Hawaii and finish my missionary service, something inside of me changed, and I wouldn't say it was an improvement.  There was a distinct moment in time when I felt as though I may as well have been buried under the rubble of 9/11. At that point, I let go and I stopped trying.  I did things, of course, I made sure my life made sense and kept up the status quo, but I left all the trying to others.  Since then, the real me has only been partially present (the rest buried deep in a very hard shell).

Clearly, being in hiding is not working for me anymore.  I mean, when you experience emotional trauma, it's like any other trauma - you just need to sit a few out; but, when you stop trying for things, you go numb.  When you stop exercising, you go limp and flabby.  That's not how I like to feel. 

And, you ask, how does all of this relate to my style/fashion?  Easy.  Style isn't as much about what you wear, it is about your intention for wearing it.  Clothes are clothes, but if you don't have purpose and intention, you, my friend, have no style.  Rather, I should say, I have no style, because I am talking about myself not living with intention. 

But that's all about to change, permanently, thanks to this poem I wrote last night, which allowed me to realize all of this.

*enjoy*

Dear mr. pride

Hello something long gone,

My, looks like you’re barely hanging on

It’s hard to believe you’re still alive…

So long ago I felt you thrive.

Though, Mr. Pride, you seem to have lost your lustrous power –

That temporary thrill of being right

Has Suddenly dropped its foil for cower,

Revealing the Absence of light

deeper within.

Anything to win.

Ponder. Please, this will help you understand

What threatened you was neither devised nor planned.

Comprehend the truth you refuse to embrace,

It is still the truth you are afraid to face.

Or, pull me like lies against a lever,

Twist me into something clever-

And have your silent say

In all the corners of yesterday.

But carve your ripples of regret

IN Someone Else who will carry your silhouette

Because

I will never again let you to stay,

And you will not ever have any today.