Why do I own so many clothes but wear the same few?

You own many clothes. You wear five or six. The rest hang like guests who never leave. You call it possibility. It is weight. Every unworn shirt asks a question: who might I become? The question feels safe. It costs nothing to imagine a party, a job, a body you don't have. But the rack fills. The room shrinks. Choosing grows hard. You spend minutes each morning wading through maybes to find the one thing you already know you'll wear. A valley does not stock every kind of rain. It just receives what falls and lets it move on. Your closet can do the same. What you don't wear is not saving you for later. It is only sitting there, taking up the room where ease could be.