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I've always had a fascination with minimalism. A white tee shirt, a gold chain, a wide open sky and a home. In the face of grandeur, I turn the other way. This isn't to say that I'm not enamored with splendor and gaudy delight. I am. But the dream is basic: a red suitcase, a sweater or two, an adventure, and maybe a book to write quietly in. And yet, it seems the dream is changing. I packed for school and brought about four shirts, a dress or two, a pair of socks, three pairs of shoes, etc etc. It looks nice hanging there, each item in its place. But it doesn't fit me. At core, I'm a girl of color and chaos. I can't function with a simple tee shirt, unless I bought it from a mexican flea market specializing in something weird and unquestionably ugly. I think it's an important distinction. Are you smoking and gorgeous, alone, ineffable, perfect for a black and white poster, pressed, and delicate? Simple and unadorned? Or are you obscured by a sombrero, a little humid in your fur coat, dancing to the beat, looking to spill some booze on your shirt and eat tacos on the stoop? Not a hot mess but less than delicate. Maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive. A few weeks ago, I was obsessed with the idea of minimizing. I went through my closet countless times, ridding myself of about five bags of clothing. I was hoping to decompress, shed some skin, get back to basics. Now I'm here. And it's boring. This isn't just about clothes, please understand. I'm trying to understand if the clothes make the man, make the woman. Is a Pocahontas lifestyle among the simple cacti something I'm suited to? What about playing Betty Draper among the perfectly steamed curtains? Is there hope for composure coupled with chaos? Get back to me.