It’s Saturday, and it’s already afternoon. I have been sitting here for about three hours now, lost in a series of thoughts, a sort of reverse meditation where I focus on every single one. The only thought that sticks out is how a friend commented about me changing the clothes I wear or my “style”, as people call it. That word does not sit well with me because people use it as a sort of absolute when it is something you arrive at with time and something you keep unlocking.
In a sort of segue, if we think about the style of a writer, we see some remnants of it in their early work, then, as time goes on, it begins to materialise in all its glory. All style is like that, including the clothes one wears. It is not about hopping from one place to another; it is simply about growing into something.
Not that I am one to nitpick when someone pays me a compliment. There is no better response than a “thank you”, as I responded earnestly when my friend said it. But I reckon you can think about something without pinning any emotion on it. The greys and blues I wore so often have been superseded by earthy greens and browns. I did not choose one or the other, and I wear my greys and blues whenever possible. All of it is but a natural progression. My obsession with the sun, the warmth, the trees all around has dissolved slowly in the clothes I wear. My words, at least what I remember of what I wrote four or five years ago, have matured, too. But I cannot feign disinvolvement from them. I wrote them, and they led to what came next.
The exploration of style, as it were, is quite like taking a thread and following it until the end. It also is somewhat like chasing the rainbow. You never reach where you want to, but the process takes you through every nook and cranny. There seldom is a pursuit so colourful. But I am glad I can still change my mind easily after all these years. I have met those hardened into whoever they became or at least think themselves to be. Many a friend have accepted who they will be, and to me, it is heartbreaking. A person can become so many things, yet many people settle on being permanent.