It has come to my attention that along with such simple pleasures as eating nutella straight from the jar, or winding down the car windows on a warm summer's day, sparkly socks are amongst the most underrated in this life.
When beauty seems to be overwhelmingly dictated by stoic, manicured perfection, I often find myself shrinking back into spaces I classify as safe. Not just with clothing choice, but creative output, writing, and behaviour in general.
Today, after trying a pair of plain black pants at Kookai, I walked by the adjacent store - Gorman. Despite a relatively steady stream of purchases within the black and white spectrum over the years, I was roped into Gorman by its sea of brilliant greens, pinks, blues and oranges.
After browsing the colourful display of clothing and picking up a jumpsuit and dress I deemed as quirky (but not to such a degree that I'd never leave the house wearing them), I found myself face-to-face with a style that gnawed at the boundaries of my comfort and sanity - pink, sparkly socks.
Struck by the intensity of their colour, I stared the socks down like forbidden fruit. Then I held them in my hand, contemplating whether I would ever muster enough courage to wear them out and about.
Let's cut this story short, because we don't have all day (which is unfortunate - because how great would it be if we could discuss socks on the daily?!) With some encouragement from the cheery shop assistant, I bought the clothes. And the sparkly socks. Two pairs, in fact.
This brings me to the core of this rant - we should never be afraid to defy normality.
Here's a quote that offers the perfect transition into my next point (thank you to its unknown source, whoever you are).
"One day, she decided to feel the fear and do it anyway. Life was too short to be afraid of her own imagination. She gave herself permission not to be perfect right away, and just to write a story for the sake of enjoying it and seeing where her imagination took her ...
She wrote and wrote, whenever she had the chance. Whenever resistance told her she wasn't good enough, she ignored it and carried on, because no novelist ever thinks they're good enough."
Did anyone else experience a little chill reading that? It hits close to home for me. I consider how I felt looking at the socks in that store today, and then I consider how I feel staring at my open word document about to launch into a writing session. In both scenarios - fear of criticism causes hesitation, self-doubt, and reluctance. I become static.
I propose that in these situations, we push forward. We type the story honestly. We speak in a voice that doesn't stray from truth for the sake of judgment. We say what we need to say. We wear those socks.