Why is it so hard to simplify ones life? Why must possession be piled upon possession, the latest soon losing its charm and needing a replacement? Why do I need a second house or a first car? Who will clean it if I have a living room big enough for 50 to party? Why can't I recycle my college textbooks, unread in 35 years? Have I so thoroughly identified with my own junk? It is as if I feared the memory would vanish without the memento. Is it more a question of who than of what I take to the dump?
Who am I without my sops, toys and tools? Whoever that person is, I should not fear to be him!
[submitted to Carival of the Un-Capitalists]
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