The Eternal Outfit

If I were condemned to singular cloth,
sentenced to the same weave
day after day,
until the threads memorized my skin
and my skin learned the language of cotton—

I would choose denim.

Not the pristine, factory-fresh blue
that screams newness from store shelves,
but the kind that whispers stories,
that carries the archaeology
of ten thousand afternoons,
the soft surrender of fabric
that has made peace with gravity.

Dark blue jeans,
faded at the knees
where prayer and exhaustion
have worn thin the boundaries
between hope and earth,
pockets deep enough
to hold the weight of small treasures:
a smooth stone from a forgotten beach,
coins warm from stranger's palms,
the folded corner of a love letter
never sent.

With them, a white t-shirt—
not the blinding white of surrender flags
or hospital walls,
but the gentle white of well-loved sheets,
soft as forgiveness,
thin enough that sunlight
passes through like benediction,
thick enough to catch
the salt of honest labor.

Cotton that breathes
when the world holds its breath,
that moves like water
when the body needs to bend
toward possibility,
that carries the smell
of laundry soap and summer storms
and the particular sweetness
of being clean.

Over this foundation,
a worn leather jacket—
brown as coffee grounds,
supple as an old dog's ear,
scarred with the small violences
of living fully:
a cigarette burn from 1987,
a scratch from climbing
through a window
toward love or escape,
the permanent stain
where red wine baptized
the sleeve during celebration.

This jacket would be my armor
and my skin,
heavy enough to anchor me
when winds of change
threaten to scatter
my carefully collected pieces,
light enough to forget
I'm wearing protection at all.

The zipper would stick
just below my heart,
requiring the gentle coaxing
of someone who understands
that broken things
still have purpose,
that the pause between
trying and succeeding
is where patience lives.

On my feet,
boots that have walked
every mile I've ever traveled,
soles worn smooth
as river stones,
leather that has bent
around the architecture
of my particular bones
until we are no longer
separate entities
but collaborators
in the art of forward motion.

Boots that know
the weight of snow,
the grip of summer asphalt,
the give of forest floors
carpeted with years
of fallen conversations
between trees and time.

Laces that have been tied
and untied so many times
they've become muscle memory,
the daily ritual
of preparation,
the evening ceremony
of release.

This uniform would grow
more itself with each wearing,
fading not into insignificance
but into truth,
the way mountains
reveal their bones
through patient weathering,
the way rivers
carve themselves deeper
by following the same path
over and over
until they become
essential.

In winter, I would add
a gray wool sweater,
loose enough to breathe,
tight enough to hold
my wandering thoughts
close to my chest.
Sleeves long enough
to cover the small scars
that map my learning,
short enough to show
my hands as they reach
for today's possibilities.

The wool would pill slightly
at the elbows,
marking the places
where I lean into life,
where I rest my weight
against the table of the world
while I consider
what comes next.

This outfit would become
my second skin,
or perhaps my first—
the one I was meant to wear
before society convinced me
I needed seventeen versions
of the same basic need:
to be covered,
to be comfortable,
to move through the world
without the daily tyranny
of choice.

In this uniform,
I would learn
the democracy of limitation,
how boundaries
can be a form of freedom,
how choosing once
can eliminate
the exhaustion
of choosing forever.

I would discover
the particular intimacy
of clothing that knows
your body's weather,
that anticipates
the places you'll bend,
the movements you'll make
before you make them.

My outfit would age
like friendship,
becoming more valuable
not despite its imperfections
but because of them,
each stain a story,
each worn spot
evidence of life lived
without apology.

And when people asked
why I chose
such simple clothes,
I would tell them:
because in a world
that changes too fast
to hold onto,
I wanted something
that would change with me,
slowly,
honestly,
until we became
indistinguishable
from each other,
until getting dressed
each morning
was less like putting on clothes
and more like
coming home
to myself.

This is what I would wear
if I could wear only one thing:
the comfortable weight
of consistency,
the soft rebellion
of refusing
the tyranny of endless options,
the quiet revolution
of loving something
simply,
completely,
every single day.

#Poetry #Fashion #Identity #Minimalism #Clothing #SelfExpression #DailyLife #Consumerism #Simplicity #Intimacy #Memory #Aging #Authenticity #Choice #MinimalistLiving #SlowFashion #PersonalStyle #LifeChoices #ModernLife