Long ago, in the time before time was measured, humans walked the earth with nothing but their skin. They wore the sun on their shoulders and the breeze on their backs. Children splashed in rivers without thought. Elders sat bare under the stars, their wrinkles telling stories that clothes could never contain. Nakedness was not a thing to notice—it simply was, like breathing or laughing.
In this age, there was no word for “shame.” There was only presence.
But one day, a traveler came—a storyteller with no name, carrying a book that had not yet been written. They gathered the people around a fire and spoke of a garden, a serpent, and two beings named Adam and Eve. In this story, nakedness was not just skin—it was exposure, guilt, sin. The people listened, puzzled.
“But why were they ashamed?” a child asked.
The storyteller only smiled and said, “Because they knew.”
From that day on, some began to see their own bodies differently. Not everyone—not all at once—but a seed had been planted. Elders who once basked in the open air now wrapped themselves in cloth. Mothers covered their breasts. Men began to sew stories into garments, claiming that the bare form tempted the gods.
The story spread. In cities that would become Babylon, Athens, Rome—new meanings clothed the human form. Nudity became symbol, ritual, taboo. In some lands, it was worshipped; in others, whispered against. Eventually, another storyteller came—this one with a cross—and the tale of Eden was told again, but louder this time. This time, it echoed through cathedrals and across continents.
Where once the body was nature, now it was a battleground.
Years passed. Centuries. Colonies rose and fell. Indigenous tribes with painted skin were dressed by force. Modesty became morality. Morality became law.
But even now, in quiet corners of the world, the first story remains. In jungles, in beaches, in art and dance and the laughter of children still unashamed, the old truth lingers: that the body was never the problem. Only the stories we draped over it.
And so, we live between tales—some that bind, and some that free.
The question, dear listener, is this:
Which story will you wear?
