clouded ~ billie eilish

chapter 2 ~ seeing self

note: this should b the last slow chapter, things r boutta get interesting okaaay

-- -- --- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

saturday, september 9th

9:46am

It's the same thing every morning: Black pants, black shirt, work shoes, hair up.

It should be simple. It should be 10 minutes in the bathroom, but I find myself hyper-fixated on the details as I do nearly every day. I am stuck on which belt I'll wear today (of the three work-approved options I own), then stumble over earrings and finally, my hair. The dressing process has stretched into a twenty-two minute long deliberation of 'who am I going to be today.'

It's hard to explain why getting dressed is so hard for me. When I look in the mirror I see myself, Chase, and that is about all I know. I know what I like, I know what I don't like, but pinning down one, consistent style evades me. I begin with the blank canvas that is Chase and build, detail by detail, the persona that I find most applicable today. I could hate a sweater today, but tomorrow it might be the only thing I feel comfortable in. It's incredibly frustrating, this guessing game that I play with myself.

Sometimes, even when I'm finally comfortable in the skin I've created for myself, I convince myself I am an imposter. How can someone so confused with themselves possibly be authentic?

Today, I decide, Chase is messy. This messiness reveals itself in my appearance; a black stud secured in one ear and delicate, feathered beads dangling from the other. My hair, dark and unruly, sticks out from the bun at the base of my neck and falls in strands at the side of my face.

Fuck it.

I know I'm running late by the near-eternity I just spent in the mirror, so I storm from the bathroom and grab my things.

Whit has yet to emerge from her room when I slip out the door, and I'm reminded that it's still early. Bounding down the stairs and out the front door of my building, a September breeze greets me at the stoop and pushes me along the walk to work. I decide am grateful for both the walk and the wind, as they subdue the confused monologue inside my head.

The streets grow busier as I get closer to the city. Cars whiz by, music and morning radio shows pour from their open windows, students and business women pass me with coffees and pastries.

I pass the hardware shop, sale: garden hoes, I think to myself, and turn the corner. The following street is hugged by brick walls completely plastered in posters and adverts for albums, tours, plays, pop-ups...it changes near-daily. I pass the advertisements for KIM PETRAS and a local production of A Midsummer Night's Dream when a flyer catches my eye:

T H E C H A P E L PRESENTS:

GET LOST

FEAT. QUEENS OF THE HOUSE OF DeVILLE

september 9th ~ 10 to 3 AM

$8 at the door

WE ID

There's at least a dozen identical flyers that follow the first across the length of the wall, then taped to a lightpost, and then to an electrical box. I smile to myself and remember the trio from Thursday: the paint-splattered overalls, the curly, green hair, the cherry lollipop, a pair of green-blue eyes. For the reminder of the walk I ponder how those kids seem larger than life, personality nearly spilling out of them. I wonder if they try, then I wonder if I can make an appearance at their club.