It's not wrong to wear an old hoodie that feels like a cloak of woven memories

It's not wrong to wear an old hoodie that feels like a cloak of woven memories, to keep jeans that hug your body like a spell that knows you by heart, because some clothes are not just fabrics, but shields of comfort on days when the light hides. It's not wrong to use a phone that freezes, like a clock that stops time in its tracks, touching it like an old oracle that holds messages opening windows to the past, because within it live smiles and beloved faces, words that don't get lost in the waves of forgetting. It's not wrong to drink coffee from a chipped mug, like from a chalice of unfinished stories, to dip biscuits to the brink of breaking, like a ritual of patience and sweet secrets, to add water to the last drop of soap, extending the pure magic of the passing days. It's not wrong to keep old food containers like chests full of silent histories, to collect shopping bags, hidden like maps of unknown adventures, or to use an empty jar for dreams written with dry ink and unspoken wishes. It's not wrong to live in a house where the paint carries shadows of untold stories, where the fan sings an old and dusty refrain, but constant like a heart that beats, where the refrigerator demands a dance before closing, keeping cold secrets inside. It's not wrong to eat a simple meal, like a silent poem feeding the hungry soul, to listen to the same song that carries you on wings of longing, like a refrain whispering your name, or to watch an old movie, like an old friend whispering stories from a dreamlike time. Sometimes, we wish for more—things that shine like stars in the dark sky of desires, but in the smell of food that wraps the house like a veil of dear and warm memories, in the laughter that dances through rooms and weaves souls into a tapestry of love, in the silence of a house that embraces us like an eternal refuge, we already have all we need.