Reality is where all our declared plans go to change outfits.

To declare a plan is to dress it in a particular costume, armed with the attire of intention and the fabric of anticipated outcomes. Yet, as each of these so-called “plans” meets the stage of reality, they shift and change — sometimes gradually, like a garment worn over time, and sometimes radically, like actors swapping costumes between scenes. In reality’s mirror, the straight lines and buttons we sew into our plans get subtly undone, refitted, and even repurposed by circumstance.

Consider how rigid expectations transform when they meet obstacles or opportunities outside their initial design, like a coat worn backward when the zipper no longer holds. A path set in iron is no longer a path but a prison for spontaneity. Plans bear no final shape until tried against the weather of what actually is. They are not a collection of hard edges but a wardrobe that lives in change, where purpose must shift to stay relevant, fluid, and — in a strange way — genuine.

A plan is never really worn without alteration; it is draped across reality as a suggestion, not a final fit. If we could see this closet of costumes for what it is, the richness of reality might reveal itself as both tailor and judge, leaving us to the reminder that what we wear, like what we plan, only becomes real in the way it fits.

Reality is where all our declared plans go to change outfits.

To declare a plan is to dress it in a particular costume, armed with the attire of intention and the fabric of anticipated outcomes. Yet, as each of these so-called “plans” meets the stage of reality, they shift and change — sometimes gradually, like a garment worn over time, and sometimes radically, like actors swapping costumes between scenes. In reality’s mirror, the straight lines and buttons we sew into our plans get subtly undone, refitted, and even repurposed by circumstance.

Consider how rigid expectations transform when they meet obstacles or opportunities outside their initial design, like a coat worn backward when the zipper no longer holds. A path set in iron is no longer a path but a prison for spontaneity. Plans bear no final shape until tried against the weather of what actually is. They are not a collection of hard edges but a wardrobe that lives in change, where purpose must shift to stay relevant, fluid, and — in a strange way — genuine.

A plan is never really worn without alteration; it is draped across reality as a suggestion, not a final fit. If we could see this closet of costumes for what it is, the richness of reality might reveal itself as both tailor and judge, leaving us to the reminder that what we wear, like what we plan, only becomes real in the way it fits.