MAN, FUCK A BACKPACKER
I've long considered myself a backpacker, however instead of travelling from place to place I've travelled from muse to muse. I've found home in the pages of fashion magazines, writers who died long before I was born, yet speak to the fragments of my broken soul, and individuals who have defied the sorrow in their eyes to produce a laughter that it so rich, pure and authentic it even had me fooled. I'm so far lost in the people and moments I've encountered/experienced that I am no longer able to differentiate myself from them. In essence, "nothing of me is original. I am the combined efforts of everyone I've ever known". And yet as I begin to type 'man, fuck a backpacker' I am reminded of how many memories each article of clothing worn here contains. The backpack now in a state of distress thanks to Wayhome Music Festival, the dress and shoes a reminder of nights out on the town, and the Valérie Dumaine jacket acts as a snapshot of INLAND. So today, instead of staying down I remind myself that no matter my mode of living/working/feeling, the most important part is to live. Simply live.