"Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind."
Club Monaco coat // H&M sweater // Mason & Belle skirt // Ivanka Trump boots // Aldo Accessories necklace
It's been my understanding, through experience, that women are naturally bold observers of the traverse world within the mind. They grow deeply inward, building mountains of speculation, while their gentle surfaces display as minimally as tranquility can be--the eyes seeing beyond the heard word, the ears hearing more than the witnessed image. Women ingeniously blend the fives senses, creating these tremendous acclamations unknown to men. But does this make them conquerors of decadent territories or trivial in the sense of edging madness?
I like to think I spend a decent amount of personal time pondering vivid questions such as these, hoping to inch closer to an epic realization from my restless mind. And the more I dedicate minutes to the internal wordy abyss, I wonder if I'm just contributing to a greater form of insanity--that if I lay nested in my deep thoughts any longer, the cognitive venture will overcome my vindication. I used to think this made me an interesting woman of depth, characterized by ornate observation. Much sooner than later, I realized, through outwardly exchanges, that that wasn't so much the case. In fact, I became more worried it dressed me as a lunatic, in the kinder sense. Pair that with my inability to accurately translate my mad-mind's inner workings into eloquent prose, and I was carefully bordering the line of depressive semantics, of someone who couldn't keep it together. Ironically enough, the fear of "losing control" was controlling me. From then on, I assumed myself to be mentally unstable at any annoying trigger and I had to be very careful not to let that side "show" itself inappropriately, and unforgivingly.
Yet, even as I write this out, I think how unfair it is for me to feel so invalidated for possessing an indelicate side of me. I should feel entitled to the heavy gesture I've learned to admit to. This edge of madness makes me a substantial being of human quality, and I'm beginning to realize being dramatic isn't always a bad thing--in fact, it makes my world colorful with perspicacity. It's the ongoing spark of fire within me that drives me to risky edges but creates personal complexity. On this road of self-evolution, I'm cherishing it with dressings of a textured display, intentionally and unforgivingly.
Photography by KMTBPhotography