When I’m wearing a coat, I like to take long walks between one place and another. I seem to have a clear purpose and also a lot of strength in my arms, especially while also carrying around a large and heavy bag, hiding away toys and guns of all sorts and shapes and colors. My face is rigid and pleased, my smile is all canny and bitter and my legs look foxy and tireless as they step on columns of pride and calculated nonchalance. Everyone and everything around smells like a juicy joke and all gestures feel like an already lost battle with the threat of nothingness. Those blue eyes behind the dark lenses held together by a cheap blue & yellow plastic frame throw the stiffest looks at the pile of human flesh cramming and flowing towards me like a wave of noisy bees, distorting the view of the afternoon light on bitter buildings and wrecked window panes. Words like courage, kindness, trust or pity are rendered irrelevant and cut to the root by the stinging cold that freezes hands and wrinckled grotesque masks, and that’s where coats come in – commonplace winter gear, generous objects over-worn by their unassumed devotion to the delicate task of sheltering crippled hearts, exhausted lungs and sick stomachs.
With my coat on, I might be feeling safe and warm, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing to accept from a plain piece of wool. Beneath it, I am sweating and choking and I only wish I could run naked, while vomiting all the toxines of my raw disgust and inborn disdain of the poisonous world I was forced to swallow like candy, day by day, for the past two insignificant decades. The poison of knowing that my scrawny self will ultimately have to narrow down all choices to only two: to hide behind my sheltering coat or to unbutton and just take it off.
* Wearing Zara coat, Jaeger sweater, vintage dress, Topshop wedges & bag, Asos socks, vintage earrings