WORDS BY EMMA FIRTH
With age comes wisdom. And it has come to my attention, though perhaps unsurprising to those who know me, that I qualify as a ‘Highly Sensitive Person’. The realisation hit not when it took a seemingly disproportionate amount of time to get over a six-month relationship, near weeping at the virtual sight of two squirrels snuggling, nor when anxiously re-reading a hurriedly sent text that may, or may not, have bled into the camp of ‘overshare.’ No. Rather, this emotional force was felt anticipating having to cull the entirety of my closet earlier this month in preparation for a house move. It would seem remiss, surely, to amount one’s wardrobe to merely superficial swathes of fabric. Because in many ways these threads act as a time capsule of sorts: postcards to past love, heartache, house parties, promotions.
Where do I begin?