I can look at the clothes I have worn and see so many people in myself. The frilly romantic in the jeans, gold belt, and pearl-buttoned white blouse. The sharp sophisticate who would wear nothing but black. The undefinable one in her resale-shop clothes. The casual one in sweats.
But I'm all of them.
And I'm me.
That's all I have to be.
The only role I play is myself.
I look at you, my friend. One day it's the khakiest, most Polo clothes on earth. Then it's fashion time as you clean out the store windows. Your dark, new jeans and button-downs are the equivalent of my fadeds and frills. And then it's the old vacation shirt to paint in.
We match perfectly. In different clothes.
How is this? Why do you pretend to be like me?
Or am I pretending to be like you?
Or are we both just being human?
I think it's the last. We all have that spectrum, that rainbow. But we're all only one person. Heck of a closet.
Who are we? Do we know? Do we even care?
When we skate together, you could not wear my clothes and I could not wear yours. But we look good. Even in the same color. Our complexions are so different, but one color and maybe an accent bind us together. Them. In the blue and gold.
Your formal wear is so different from mine. You are restricted to black, given the codes we both grew up with. I am allowed and even encouraged to wear any color I want. Differences in the cut of your outfit are supposed to be invisible to the naked eye. I'm supposed to look different. And yet a savvy observer 100 yards off can tell we're a couple even if we're not standing together. Hmmmm. Very interesting.
Why? Why do we do this to each other? Why do we do this to ourselves?
Apparently because we like it.