The morning air has changed.
When I opened the window, a breeze that still held a chill but had somehow loosened crept into the room. The tail end of winter releasing its grip, spring catching its breath in the doorway. The sunlight was no longer sharp, and the light passed through the glass and spread gently.
I gazed at that light for a long while, then muttered to myself.
"Today... I have to do it."
Actually, I had known for a long time. That I needed to tidy the room. Cords tangled on the floor, a shirt carelessly draped over a chair, clothes that had failed to find their place even after seasons had passed. All of it had been quietly pressing down on me.
I am a full owner.
Actually, I wasn't always this kind of person. Back in my reporter days, a 9,900-won t-shirt, 19,900-won slacks, and 39,900-won sneakers were all it took to send my self-esteem soaring. I was enough in myself. I had the pride of being able to explain the world with a single article, a single sentence. Back then, clothes didn't define me. I defined myself.
But at some point, that changed. I'm not sure exactly when. Perhaps it was the moment I first put on a well-made suit. Or perhaps when, wearing decent clothes for the first time in a long while, I caught someone's gaze on the street and noticed something shift — not just in their eyes, but in my own posture.
Clothes, I realized, are not simply coverings for the body. They are a language. A silent declaration of how one wants to be seen, what one values, who one is.
And so I became a collector. Not of luxury goods, but of pieces with meaning. Items that tell a story. A jacket from a small atelier in a narrow alley in Kyoto. Trousers hand-stitched in Naples. Shoes from a shoemaker in London's East End who still uses the same lasts his grandfather made.
Each item carries a memory. The occasion it was worn, the emotion of that day, the person I met.
But here's the problem. Those memories multiply, and the room fills up.
And so today — this day of loosened breezes and soft sunlight — I decided to face what I'd been avoiding.
I opened the wardrobe. The first thing that greeted me was a tweed jacket I'd bought in Edinburgh years ago. Heavy, slightly scratchy, and yet I haven't been able to part with it. Because the memory attached to it is heavier still.
I sat holding it for a long time. Then I thought: I don't need to keep all of it. What I need to keep are not the objects, but the experiences.
And slowly, I began to sort.
This spring, I want to walk in a suit. Not the heavy memories of winter, but new stories. Light steps, beneath warm sunlight.
The sorting has begun.
