The Year I Buy Nothing

I’m the last person who will ever be a minimalist. For those who don’t know me, I live in a library. I have hundreds upon hundreds of books stacked up all over my flat. The seven bookcases I own are heaving, double-stacked, with books on top piling up to the ceiling (merely out of principle from keeping them off the floor). I have a wardrobe heaving with fashion statements (all of which I adore), and racks of shoes I save for special occasions which occur once a year at most. I keep memorable trinkets, diaries and notebooks from my past. Essay feedback forms from my glorious university days, tickets from theatre plays I loved, and every possible free bookmark I picked up from the counter of a bookshop till. I’m a sentimentalist who loves shopping and, most importantly, being surrounded by books at all times.

Being a clutter-bug was fine when I lived alone: because then it wasn’t cluttered. I had a whole apartment to myself to spread around my books and trinkets, five doors to hang my coats on the back of, two closets just to myself. But when my boyfriend moved in, the proximity between my belongings intensified. My bookcases became shoved to a corner to make room for his computer desk, my second closet became his’, along with a space for his TV and electric guitars. My coats suddenly couldn’t fit on just two doors, and I had to resort to putting clothes into suitcases and vacuum bags. Our kitchen…