I have often thought myself a free spirit of sorts. A blossoming flower in the gentle breeze, bound and tethered to no one. I am free to love, and be with whomever I choose. I have thought that my hair is the outward expression of my most inner self: wild, untamed, and playful. A daydreamer who chaises sunsets and sunrises with an open heart, and see’s the beauty in serendipitous happenstance. A lark who dreams out loud, daring the dawn to linger back just a little bit longer.
Jacket: Lush // Tee: Jella Couture // Jeans: Gap, cropped straight leg // BOY London hat // Steve Madden heels
Yet there are moments where I cannot help but to be consumed by my own mortality. A fear, a tempest that lies just below the surface; it squeezes the air out of my lungs and causes me pause. An ordinary moment turned into a span of contemplation of being adrift, and not knowing the due course. A blossoming flower is dependent on the rains after all. Does a lark’s song remain beautiful if no one is there to listen?
