I have difficulties letting go. I'm also easily drawn to fads, fooling myself into thinking that this is the next ''big thing''. Third, FOMO is an unwanted, yet constant presence in my life. Fourth, I am a scatterbrained meerkat with (possibly, but perhaps not) undiagnosed ADHD and less focus than the dog in the movie ''Up''.
Let me explain.
A few years, while wandering around the Bozar bookshop, a stone's throw from the Central Station, I came upon a little book by Fumio Sasaki, called Goodbye Things. It was a tiny little thing, barely 130 pages in a pocket format. As I browsed through and pretended to stand in line, I was hooked from the first couple of pages. What I did not see at the time, was that this was just another attempt of my mind trying to enforce rules upon myself, for literally the umpteenth time, so I can finally be productive, happy, and satisfied.
Right.
Anyhow, I jumped in, taking in the lessons that Fumio provided. I was sure this was going to be it. Then I realized that I was, by and large, already a minimalist. After sparing a thought on where that might have come from, I concluded it was because I had moved around a number of times. I especially reminisced on one night in Prague when I left my tiny student room where I had spent my Erasmus with a large backpack, a large duffel bag filled with way more books (and other assorted crap) I had bought during my 5 months there than I ever would have had time to read. On top of that, I had a smaller backpack. Simple gravity decided that I was not able to carry all that on my own. The hour was late and my phone battery was low, so who was going to help me? My train home (yes, night trains still existed then) was leaving in an hour, and getting to the bus stop, around 500 meters away, was going to be difficult. I was lucky. Remembering a phone number for a taxi service, I used my phone's last bit of juice to call for my salvation. I was picked up by one of the nicest drivers I ever had. We talked for about 30 minutes about what I was doing in Prague before dropping me off at the train station with about 15 minutes to spare. As I still needed to get all my shit on the actual train, that turned out to be just enough. Exhausted, stressed, and sweaty but elated, I quickly fell asleep. Luckily for me, it was a night train, with a bed. Before I dozed off, I made a solemn promise to myself to never travel so heavily packed anymore. I said to myself that, even if I'd have to move across the world, I would need to find a way to carry everything in one go. One backpack, perhaps one trolley. That's it. Not a gram more.
Not realizing it at the time, I had become a minimalist at that very moment. Tyler Durden himself could have come up to me on that train and said the words he is most known for: ''the things you own, end up owning you'', and I would have high-fived him, right before I would ask him what the hell he was doing on a random train on a winter's night.
I thought I needed a lot of books. What they really meant was that I liked to be known as someone who likes books. Stuff becomes identity and minimalism is just the new name for that. Fight Club did not give it a name, but it put its finger on the sore spot nonetheless. Heck, it plunged its blood-soaked finger deep inside the gaping wound that was modern identity based on IKEA magazines, suits, and cars. And this was in 1999. Almost a quarter of a century ago and what has changed? We still ascribe our identity to stuff we think we need to gather, but the stuff itself has changed. It used to be suits, cars, and houses, now it's laptops, phones, identities, and politics. In the end, it doesn't matter, because you are still identifying yourself by something other than yourself. We are still comparing ourselves.
I can hear you say now; ''minimalism'' is an identity too. If you feel like it is something that defines you, that is identity. And I would agree. But getting rid of physical stuff is just the first step. True minimalism, to me at least, is letting go of so much more.
Long story short: I have a negative connotation with stuff, mentally but also, as you've just read, physically.
That brings us to our second topic: settling down and FOMO. Settling down implies ownership of a place that you truly call yours.
If I buy a place, is that because I want it, or because I feel I need it? Looking out the window of my 75 sq.m. apartment, could I live in something smaller than that? Would a smaller apartment even suffice to survive that is the pissing contest called life? Or less dramatically, the pissing contest that is small talk at parties? At least that is one thing I can thank Covid for removing from my life. What is big enough? What is small enough? If I move to a smaller place, could I live with myself? Who would actually give a fuck?
I'm not jealous. Jealousy, to me, implies that I do not wish for anyone else to have what I feel I'm lacking either. That's not what's happening either. Rather, it's jealousy towards oneself, by wishing I had what others have seemed to figure out. Jealousy towards a hypothetical self in the future that you'd wish you could be this very instant. Jealousy towards that future you that somehow has managed to get past all the obstacles that I and life itself throw my way. But you never get there. FOMO gets in the way. The need to have caught up with the latest show, visited the hottest new vacation spot (''you haven't been to Iceland yet? What are you, a pleb?), or bought the latest gadget.
Fuck that noise. Maybe minimalism is a fad. But it has helped me care less, expend less energy on shit that doesn't matter, and reduce the FOMO. And that's not bad.
Oh, almost forgot. My lack of focus. See how that works? Anyway, minimalism helps with that too. Distractions are painfully easy for me to get drawn to. By removing everything that in my most focused moments I wouldn't want to get involved with, I create mental peace. That, and just telling things they are not important. Not having an opinion is fine too, even in 2022.
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