I aim to embrace a minimalist’s life, but I’ll walk to the shop down the street and spy a small, citrusy-scented candle in a pink glass bowl, and that beauty will land in my dining room, two wicks wafting indulgence and waxy sparks of joy. Eventually, inevitably, the shelf is filled with trinkets, used up, somehow drained of the promise they once offered. I have no room for them, so off to donate I go. My mother says that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. But now a woman can shop for a full wardrobe and the closet to keep it in– entirely from her couch. We are making too much trash. Consume, consume, the drumbeat. I am still trying, failing, at less, less. It’s just that I’m like a hungry fish, swimming along, lured in by the small, shiny things.
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