Everything has a story. The tiniest scratch. The largest scar. The most random birth mark. Just like any part of a living thing has a story, every inanimate object has a story too.

My white, dusty wardrobe has a life of its own. It swallows any item of clothing it can, feeding off of worn jumpers, unused t-shirts, my favourite jeans. It swallows shoes of every kind: old trainers, their once white base now plastered with dirty brown mud; black boots, worn once at a party, and never touched since; bold flip flops with bright, unique colours, that would only ever be seen abroad, with no one to judge their foolishness.

Clattering of high heels, however, disappointed my wardrobe- shopping spree gone drastically wrong once again.

Along with storing my loved essentials, it also holds my prized possessions. It loves the smell of my rapidly increasing candle collection, and the way each and every one has a very different, but completely overwhelming scent, getting excited when new replaces old. Also, anywhere I can fit them, board games scatter, creating a sense of unity- they did nothing better than attract family.

Speaking of my wardrobe and I as a relationship would be considered a weird thing to think about, but really it’s more complicated than you might think. We depend on each other to live- without me, my wardrobe has no purpose, and without my wardrobe; I would survive, but in today’s society, I might as well be dead. So yes, my wardrobe has it’s own life. But it’s enjoyment comes from assisting me, and for that, I should be more grateful.

But who cares about a wardrobe, if it has less importance than me?