Confused. Everytime I have to choose my "outfit for the day". Everytime I have to speak. Everytime I have form an opinion about something. Everytime I have to "decide". It wasn't like this always. Reds were never 'me", and I could never pick up those black little things that now line my voluminous built-into-the-wall closet. I never had to choose between being "intelligently chic" one day and "bohemian beautiful" the next. Ah! I hate this! Hate not knowing who I am and why I choose to pick up one tub of moisturiser one day and another one the next. Wish I could have "Fair and Lovely" loyalities like my mother. Or avant-garde-does-it-for-me like my ex-boyfriend. Questions too many. Answers, approximately none. Sometimes I wonder if I am looking for those still elusive answers when I go out everyday. In the hope that truth will reveal itself, perhaps announce itself on my metro ride. As if I had the spirit of a gambler inside me, hidden somewhere along with the still innocent school girl, preserved with the slowly waxing/waning mothballs. "One last time", it tells me everyday. One last time it always is.
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