I’ve become a caricature of a style blogger. I’m twirling in grassy fields, using too many exclamation points, and browsing ModCloth at work – and I’m doing it all 100% unironically. I used to look on the unflinchingly twee with disdain. Where’s my old snark? Where’s the wryness that let everyone know exactly how jaded I am?
I used to be Dark. Read: a brooding Hot Topic pessimist just a little too pagan for everyone else’s comfort. I never went so far as raccoon liner, but I came damn close. I had shucked off most of my gothic carapace by the time I started this blog, but elements of her remained: would I have posted shots like this a year ago? Would I have worn a dress whose only artistic merit was showing off my happiness?
I never want to be a cliche. I’ve become known in the style blogosphere for my kooky concept shoots and commitment to storytelling, and I’m not about to become the stand-‘n’-pose type. But I am happy enough in my own self to fall back on it sometimes. Though I often want it, I don’t need adornment.
Pockets of me are still raw and complicated. And I am still a haunter, still a horror darling, still a troubadour of the supernatural. But I come to those things now because they are not me. Because I, down in my gut, am simple and calm and bright. My appreciation for the dark is less an ugly compulsion, more a deliberate seeking out.
If this is what SSRIs do to you, then I’d be positively saccharine on a higher dose.
Photos by Danica. I think I’ll keep her. 😉