If it is generally accepted that everyone wears a black hat, black gloves and a black cape, and my closet is filled with seven sets of the same, then it stands to reason that I wear these things as well. The truth is I hate black hats, black gloves and black capes, but if that is what is good and honest and enduring in a body, then is that not what I must wear?
If I were to venture out in a brown hat with purple polka dots and a scarf instead of a cape, who knows what sort of calamities may befall me. If I forgot my gloves at home, surely the bus would not stop to pick me up, truly I might fall in a large mud puddle, absolutely could I be refused entry to my place of employment. All of these possibilities are enough to scare me from committing such a widely unpopular faux pas. But I do so long for the courage to toss away my black hat, black gloves and black cape. The fear holds me back.
If I was to wear a red coat, perhaps I could learn to dance. If I was to wear a blue cap, perhaps I could learn French. If I had the spunk to dress apart, stand apart, live apart, who knows what I could be capable of? What chances I may take? But the fear holds me back, so I cling to my black hat, black gloves and black cape, and live a black life.