I’ve just had the sad realisation that, as a literature student and general book hoarder, I will never be able to live a minimalist life. I’m never going to have sleek, clear spaces, or be able to pack everything I own in a box and just flee. I’m always going to need somewhere stable for my books to live, no matter where I decide to swan off. My books take up more physical space than me and everything else I own put together, and their the only things I own that I’ll never be able to release. They mean more than the minimalism. Every aspect of my life and identity is forever in flux, but my attachment to paper and bindings and stories has never changed. And in a way, it’s nice to have something in my life that grounds me like that. When I’m trying to figure out who and what I am and where I’m going and what has actual meaning to me, it’s wonderful to be anchored by words.