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25 October 2017

How to Live Like Minimalist

by Andrew

This is simple. Live homeless, if you really want to live like a minimalist. Homeless have nowhere to put their shit. So they can't have much, then, by necessity. They're forced to have little.

But that's crazy, to be homeless if you don't have to be. But maybe that's exactly what it takes. Why else would you throw all that you own into a dumpster? Unless you're losing your home, about to be homeless. You're forced to throw away all the junk. Or else you won't otherwise.

You won't be needing it anyway, all the junk. If you're going to be homeless, and live outside, out-of-doors, for some time. You can only carry so much afterall. Till you're back on your feet.

And eventually you can afford a new home, if you'll work. You move-in, all happy. You throw your backpack onto the floor. What's in it is all that you own. The thud echoes round your new empty home. And you sleep. For a couple days, you sleep. So wonderful it feels to be protected again by walls.

And that's enough for the moment. Till you get hungry. So you go to the grocery store and buy some food. The nutritious stuff to which you've become accustomed. You get a pan—because the one you have is all fire-scorched—and a wooden spoon, some salt and pepper maybe. Only what fits into your bag. Because you must walk back to the new home afterall. And you're sick of heavy bags. You have a home now.

You have 5 showers a day. Just because all year you've had maybe 5 showers. You can count on your hand. The warm water feels so nice. Some towels you need you decide. So to-morrow you walk to Wal-Mart and buy a couple towels. One to use while you wash the other. That's it. Maybe you buy an extra outfit there for $10. Or 2 outfits you buy maybe. A little variety now your wardrobe has, all types of combinations—Wal-Mart chíc.

You don't need a bed. The ground is more comfortable anyway. A couple blankets folded in half and stacked together make a better mattress than you can buy anywhere. Unzip your sleeping bag completely and use it as a comforter, to trap your body heat.

You visit thrift stores. You need a chair and a little table maybe. You need at least a chair definitely. One of those foldable wooden ones is perfect. Quite a comfortable little chair, I must say, for only just a sheet of fabric really. You carry it home. What a wonderful idea, some college kid says, stopping you, complimenting.

Your mother sends the computer in the mail, padded by a few of your favorite books. Under the bed I left it, all packaged up, taped, and ready to be sent. I had no idea that was even there, she says. It takes about a week.

And you're in business. Even if you wanted more, you can barely afford it anyway. Food is the most important thing. So you spend what little money you do have on food only. The rent you have covered, stashed-away and spoken-for. The less junk there is, the less distracts you. Your empty home is a constant reminder, motivation to work. You've nothing else to do but try to make some money now, in order to stay inside. Who cares about trinkets? They won't keep you out that rain.


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