I hate moving. I hate changing. I lust and long for comfort.
I gave my self anxiety attacks over my fear of being forced to leave.
So I have a new place and I'm hesitating to fill it with things. My fear hasn't left me. I might be forced to leave. What if I am expected to leave tomorrow, next week, next month, six months from now, next year, or so forth.
My logic works like that ... minimalism in a world of uncertainty. I fantasize about not having too many things, about being able to walk away confidently from everything.
I like things, but don't like acquiring them. Why am I accumulating things? I need to get rid of things. Things equal permanence, attachment, stability. I want fewer things but keep acquiring more. I wake up and think, I should get rid of stuff, but then I wake up and think, I should get this. I am restless. I return things to stores and I feel good, but then I buy more things and I feel guilty.
Permanence is a fantasy and a dream I fear might be too costly to invest in.
The old adage is that as you get older you need stability and permanence. I feel more restless, and do not want a bond to the world and its machinations. I don't know if I'll ever not have these feelings.
Funnily, until a month ago I had nothing except clothes, shoes and some minor household items. Now, I have far more. A bed, televisions, furniture and a townhouse. I have complicated my life more than I needed to.
I keep thinking about that abandoned house on the web. It has all its furniture and even a car in the garage. The theory is that the couple that once owned it died suddenly. And no one claimed it, after. It exists, trapped in its 1970s decor, slowly succumbing to the entropy that decays all things in time.
The arguments for and against permanence are strong, either way. I could die today or live for the next sixty years. So, I guess I am forever restless.