let me tell you a story

Clothing dreams

Oh no. Not this again. It's the clothing dream. I've been having it for fifty years. Aisle after aisle, closetful, metal rack after metal rack of clothing, stretching into the distance under the glare of the flourescent tubing- as goudy and ornate and confusing, and finally as gloom and oppressive as the dreams of a long time opium smoker. Why am I compelled to riffle through these outfits, tangling up the hangers, tripping on the ribbons, snagging myself on a hook or buttom while the feathers and sequins and fake pearls drop to the floor like ants from a burning tree? What is the occasion? Who do I need to impress?

There's a smell of stale underarms. Everything's been worn before. Nothing fits. Too small, too big, too magenta. These flounces, hoops, ruffles, wired collars, cut-velvet-capes, none of these disguises is mine. How old am I in this dream? Do I have tits? Whose life am I living? Whose life am I failing to live?

by Margaret Atwood from The Tent

(I can't remember the pics source)