I surprise myself yet again with an ensemble that brought patterns of two spectrums together. 

One, checked gingham of the yesteryears sprawled across a skirt in degrees that broke order; two, child of tartan of unorthodox politics, familiar to my ears only as 90s punk rebels; one and two makes three, held together by the backbones of black and white.

Gray somehow finds itself into the look, though, as patterns clash and heads shake at the mold that has been broken.

Being bold and breaking out of the mold of styling is something I have grown rather fond of doing. Dwelling in a land where being prim and proper, trimmed and tailored, cut and coordinated seem to be deemed acceptable in terms of sartorial escapades, I like to dress for the misfits and the silenced braves. Let me explain.

It was on an afternoon where a bout of desperate existential crisis whipped me in the arse that I chanced upon a TED talk -- because it is the sanity and sobriety of technology, entertainment and design that I cling onto in times of despair and disorder -- given by a woman in her 50s dressed in Doc Martens and an A-line dress on which floral patterns seemed to have exploded on in hues that made infinitely no sense, like a skyline where cities and trees collided with stars because they reached too far into the night sky. 

But it made sense, because Lidia Yuknavitch spoke of a term and a story I have been searching for the day I began -- life, occasionally, but blogging often times. She spoke of the word "misfit" and I felt myself whipped once again as the distraught I yielded, brought about by isolation whether it be self-inflicted or not, fled and it was like I had been reunited with the feeling of being a puzzle someone could solve or a riddle that made someone laugh, as if I had always existed to be fathomed and understood.

Race and nationality have made me a part of the minority by default, but squeeze myself into an even tighter circle where relevance matters and add unto that my relentless affinity for bleached hair, dark clothes and pretentious writing, I am an ill-fitting pair of ripped-tights among culottes and skinny jeans. And I admit I have often felt perplexed by this, wishing countless of times that I am not who I am but someone who fit into the line of perfection of whom people could easily say, "Hey, she looks pretty normal and cool. I think I like her."

But where this seed of a dream I can only grasp for buries itself, I am a thorn -- a thorn among other thorns in a field of poppies and daisies. So a misfit, I am, but a grateful one with an inkling of a voice -- or dress -- that I get to use for the rest. 

Perhaps this is a follow up to my post on the impending feeling of ennui, but I think I have found a little peace in such an apt word and in the myriad of advice, thoughts and messages I have received. (I read every one of them and I'd like to say thank you.)

The first time I made a pattern excursion, I ended on a note that promised more trekking of this foreign territory when I've got enough to lose, a rather pathetic thing to say, on hindsight, but I believed then and there that there was nothing much for me in this world and it felt odd to say there was. I like to think that I have acquired some sort of epiphany over time, so here is another pattern excursion, of gingham and of plaid, of black and of white, but of gray, too.

"Even at the moment of your failure, right then, you are beautiful. 
You don't know it yet, but you have the ability to reinvent yourself endlessly.
That's your beauty."



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