An innocent enough thought crossed my mind as I was preparing for bed… I could stay in this apartment-mansion another year... I am either a third or more than halfway through my lease, depending on when you’re read this essay. Next year will almost certainly cost $100 more. That is cheaper than some other apartments around here. I still have much baggage to sort through. Maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome, but I’m beginning to like it here…
I don’t think I’ll ever want to buy a house.
Although that seems to be the big thing to do, I know enough about myself to know after I do the necessary chores I’ll only do what doesn’t bore me. I never watch movies anymore because their plots are always rudimentary and predictable, perhaps because of mass-market consumability, and it’s just not my preferred medium. With the sound off, I can imagine my own dialogue or watch the characters act.
I will soon start selling many things.
I am at the point in life where I know with such conviction what I want – to write – that anything less can become a bore. If I watch a movie, depression can creep in. I won’t feel entertained by a comedy. I’ll feel a crushingly overwhelming sadness. Some movies linger in my mind, but more how their scenes tie into my reality. Naked is an example where Johnny’s philosophical expunging with the security guard remains a floating point of interest.
I bought my first book in a while today.
I feel guilty that Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov kicked Murakami’s Underground out of the books next in queue. Only somewhatly, however, since I had an innate desire to read anything by Dostoevsky. I will still read Underground. Maybe I just feel like I might not read this new addition? It’s certainly been like that with other new book purchases.
I’m different now.
Now I know that my finicky resolve was based in non-committal hobbyist fancies than out of any sense of duty. I am committed to my writing. I’m working on a longer essay, “Time Travel Toxicity,” but would have felt guilty for not cranking out a mild-mannered daily essay at around 500 words to focus on that one, itself a mammoth essay covering perhaps a week in my life as a means of proving time travel, or perhaps little more than masturbatory writing practice.
Either way, we’re here because of a feeling.
I could live in this apartment-mansion for another year. Half because I like the place and half because I have so much left to downsize. Can I even get it all done in two years? I have many boxes of books, almost all unopened from before the move. I’ve documented what’s inside each box, and kept them based on interest, but here we are a half-year later. I figure that once I parse through the boring stuff, I can decide how much value it will be for me to read through some things.
I’m comfortable either way.
|Sources: My personal experiences.|
|Inspirations: Explained above, but also, it settles a thought I’d had where I wanted to get out as soon as possible. But to where? There is no better spot yet. I can work hard toward clearing out more space to enable myself to move to that better spot, but where would that be? Will I be ready to accept that new space? For now, it’s taken a few months, but I’m comfortable enough here, perhaps.|
|Related: Other Downsizing Zeal essays.|
|Photo: A shot of where I had the thought. In a small way, these photos will be a travelogue through my downsizing odyssey, and though I will typically only take shots from certain angles, it seems, this is the view from the bathroom with the washer/dryer to the left with the kitchen ahead and the bedrooms to the right.|
|Written On: August 13th [19 minutes, mobile]|
|Last Edited: August 14th [Minor edits. Otherwise; first draft; final draft for the Internet.]|