Between the purely practical and the purely sentimental lies the vast bulk of the stuff we collect.
It might have a use and/or it’s imbued with some sentimentality.
Disposing of that is the tricky bit. It’s kind of all or nothing.
I realised that spines on bookshelves weren’t the barcode of my life.
I had a big fire of all the things that don’t define me.
Yes, I’d like to think that was everything.
A coronal mass ejection of stuff.
A pre-emptive strike on sentiment.
Decommitment by diesel.
Fire, and forget.
I stopped curating landfill. Think of it as material anorexia.
But I notice that minimalism never goes full bore.
You’re just saying, ‘I can do without everything…except this.’