Jeans

I slip myself into a pair of stiff jeans. It’s the beginning of the day. I am stiff as well; too stiff for stiff clothes. The air smells like morning, flowery layers blown about in wind. The air is full of elastic brightness. It touches the yellow of my bed with new fresh light, every moment changing; fluid and whole. Everything is soft and slides with ease into the gentle rhythm of day, everything except me. I scrap myself together out of big clunky pieces. I have never felt more human, more stuck in my absurdity. I think about changing my pants, but they match my top. 

Jeans. What a strange construction of fashion, what a perfect emblem of humanity. We rip our hardy work clothes that haven't seen a day of dirt.  We encumber our legs with armour, though we no longer need the protection. We fight a war against peace. It’s convoluted, It’s uncomfortable, turgid, stiff. It’s style. It’s beautiful.  I wear my hypocrisy proudly; my legs encased in denim.