Burgundies, Purples, and Plaids

She sometimes looks at her life as though through the eyes of another; as though it could belong to someone else. She notices patterns. Clothes of the same few shades and colours. Mostly blues, reds, burgundies, purples, plaids. What draws her to them? What part of her subconscious makes her choose so many of the same?

There is a story there, somewhere within her and buried in her past, that determines these patterns so camouflaged in her life. She wonders what parts of that story intertwine to form those patterns. She wonders when the patterns started, and what triggered them. She wonders how her own life choices were strung together, because she has fully lost track and does not expect to ever regain her way. There is an explanation out there somewhere, perhaps hidden under more layers than are possible to rifle through, but she does not know it. As far as the idea of knowing oneself,

     she is at a bit of a loss.

Why is a toasted blueberry bagel nostalgic of brightness, and a packed box the symbol of terror? Why is an airplane inducing of excitement; a train the promise of adventure; while the winding, narrow, bustling streets of a busy city are cause for worry?

     When did tea become comfort over chocolate?

          How did books become more company than Man?

When did 'friend' become a difficult, impossible word, while hate rose on wings of freedom to the height of dominance? How did patient and compassionate warp to reveal the cynicism

     and anger 

           beneath?

                What turned death to fascination and life to meaningless drawl?

But at the same time...when did nature become her epitome of inspiration? When was her perception of beauty altered to include so much more than before? When did she learn to appreciate all those little things; the little happenings, the little words; that pulled her through the overwhelming harshness of big things? How did blind faith change from an impossibility to her daily choice, and when did it become just a little

     easier?

She does not see any progression through all of her questions, and she does not see a pattern pointing toward any answers. But she sees the underlying repetition of routine, tied with comforts and terrors that she has unleashed upon herself, upon her own life. She sees her character and her personality emerging in a tangle of contradictions, and a string of patterns, that she cannot make sense of - nor should she try. If she is a walking, talking mass of contradictions, then she will express that through her pattern of living, regardless of whether or not she knows the reasoning behind it.

     And since when was she an element of reason?