Reluctant to part with clothes

     I love old things because everything old carries a deep sentiment. With the passage of time, it loses some of its monetary value but gains a certain charm. As the weather gets warmer, I suddenly realized how many clothes I have when I was organizing them. Touching each piece, each one a symbol of a past life, I think I was once a slave to clothes, much like every woman feels her wardrobe is missing her favorite piece. Whether happy or unhappy, I would search for myself among those beautiful clothes, stubbornly buying them only to regret it later. Some clothes I bought I immediately disliked, never to be worn again, even wanting to throw them away. Others, after a few days, were relegated to the back of the closet after a casual remark from someone, never to be seen again. Later, through natural selection, I would replenish my wardrobe, once again succumbing to the allure of elegant attire. Looking at the clothes before me, I realize how empty I was before, how childish, relying on clothes for confidence, fickle and indecisive, greedy and naive.

    Today, I've finally let go. I'm no longer blindly rushing to possess things. My wardrobe now contains very few new clothes, and I've lost all interest in my former favorite clothing stores, rarely visiting them anymore. This change has allowed me to treat myself more rationally, without letting external forces sway my emotions. I carefully folded and put away the clothes, many of which I know I'll never wear again. I sighed inwardly, regretting wasting their prime. How many of these belonged to my youth? These were once my heart's desires, deeply attracting me at a certain moment, in a certain situation, from a certain angle, making me buy them without hesitation, possessing them as my own—a genuine, visceral desire. But reality tells me that what's fleeting is fleeting, unsustainable, and lacks depth.

    Now, even if they withstand the marks of time and remain bright and clean, I know I won't like them anymore. Several boxes full of clothes, carrying soulless fabric, are a banishment of all memories from before yesterday.

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