
While it's hot.
They are the silent witnesses to our lives, absorbing the smoke from a campfire, the salt of an unexpected cry, the scent of a lover's skin. ▩▧▦ fabric cut and stitched to cover our bodies, our wardrobes become a physical archive of who we have been. A map of our own evolution. Each piece is a quiet artifact from a past version of you. The you who thought that job was the one. The you who fell in love that autumn. The you who danced on a table, just because.
Think of that one thing hanging in the back of your closet. Maybe it's a ridiculous, puff-sleeved bridesmaid dress from a wedding whose marriage didn't even last as long as the dress has. Yet, you keep it. You see it and remember the bad champagne and the way your friend's face looked, utterly luminous, just for a day. Or the faded band t-shirt, impossibly soft from a thousand washes, bought in a sweaty concert hall when you were seventeen. It doesn't fit anymore, not really, but it fits a memory of you that is so beautifully, achingly precise. That one perfect wool coat you found in a thrift store, the one with someone else's initials embroidered inside. You wear their story, too. A mystery you carry on your shoulders.
We hold onto these things, these textiles imbued with our own ghosts. It makes no logical sense. The space they take up. The dust they gather. But letting them go feels like a betrayal of the person you once were. A soft, moth-eaten cardigan can feel more like a hug from your grandmother than any photograph ever could. Those hiking boots, caked in mud from a trail you swore you'd never conquer, sit by the door as proof of your own strength. They are your talismans. Your armor. Your relics. The evidence.
A snagged thread from a stranger's ring. A wine stain from a night of secrets. The distinct wear on the knees of your jeans from kneeling in the garden. Small imperfections that tell the truest tales. We think we are choosing an outfit, but sometimes, the outfit is choosing the story we need to tell that day. Or the one we need to be reminded of. The power in a pair of silly socks. The courage found in a jacket with sharp shoulders. The absolute, unadulterated joy of a dress that spins just right. This isn't frivolous. It's foundational. It is the language of living, spoken without a single word.
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▷ While it's hot.
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