In the words of Yohji Yamamoto,
“Black is modest and arrogant at the same time. Black is lazy and easy — but mysterious. But above all black says this: “I don’t bother you — don’t bother me.””
I am completely addicted to black. Something about it, for me, is so positively delicious.
As an animated, optimistic, dry-humored person who is very quickly exhausted from overstimulation, I get my energy from being alone and greatly enjoy solitude and silence. I hate conflict; I avoid it, and when possible, I run from it. I always have. More often than not, I will let personal calls ring through to voicemail unless it’s a family member or very close friend because I hate talking to people I don’t know on the phone or somewhere else, it always challenges me and exhausts. And while I can certainly be verbally articulate, I would much prefer to express myself through writing, art, and dress. I spend the vast majority of every day inside my head: thinking, ruminating, creating, analyzing. I am a complete introvert.
I long for meaningful conversations with those to whom I am closest. It’s not that I am not social; just selectively so. I adore people, though I have considerably more alliances than friends. I trust precious few. I crave authenticity in my interactions and while I’m outgoing, I much prefer listening to talking. I like to play my cards thoughtfully. Black is a subconscious means for me to put people off, in a way, to stay somewhat hidden, to hold on to secrets, to preserve the unknown. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe there is no sexier quality than to uphold an air of mystery, both in terms of self-disclosure and in terms of dress. Never tell all; never show all. It keeps people guessing.