I'm a consumer.
There's no way around it. I can't avoid it.
It's staring me in the face.
Piles of clothes, a bathroom in distress, a yes pile, a no pile, an 'I-want-to-bring-this-even-though-it's-frivolous' mountain. A car full of coffee mugs and debree.
Disorder.
It's 11:22 pm. The minutes struggle and I wrinkle my forehead and amble around my room in quarter pivots and circles.
This thing and that. I bought these sandals and where are my malaria pills.
How many books am I bringing? 8
And so on and so forth.
I'm weighed down by my things.
And I did it to myself.
Things to keep me safe? Things to make me comfortable? Things to protect me, to entertain me? To sooth and to heal?
Things.
And what, if any of it, is real?
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