Copyright © 2024 Alby Stone
It all started when he read that book. You know, the one by that Japanese woman. It seemed such a good idea. For a long time, his life had been unsatisfying. It needed sorting out, and if home was where charity began, surely everything else stemmed from it. His flat was filled with stuff. Not messy, really – not even cluttered by most people’s standards, just full of stuff, lots of it. Always in his way, whenever he tried to get anything done. He’d tried to get rid of a few things, but could never decide what he no longer wanted or needed. You know how it is, this or that might come in handy one day, something could be useful if… Well, just if.
That book changed everything. He finally knew where he was going wrong, And it was so simple. Instead of deciding what to throw out, he had to determine what he wanted to keep. And the book gave him a foolproof criterion: only keep what brings you joy.
The kitchen was the ideal place to start. Did the crockery give him joy? No – it was merely what he ate off. The same with the cutlery. The kettle went, the pots and pans, the cheese grater, the microwave, the cooker. By the time he’d finished all that was left was a neat spread of foodstuffs on bare floorboards. Even that was unsatisfying. After all, how much of that stuff truly brought him joy? Most of it was designed to achieve a balanced diet, and the rest was only to make basic staples taste better – condiments, sauces, herbs and spices. Into the bin it went. He could eat out or get takeaways in easily disposable packaging. It was so liberating.
Next, the lounge. Did the television make him joyful? Not with the appalling news, dreadful sitcoms and identikit police procedurals, or the documentaries that only made him argumentative. The sofa, the table? Merely things that supported other things, and the same went for the carpet, even the bookcase, as he’d read every book. In fact, nothing in the lounge was the least bit joyful. Books, videos, music, electronics, furniture – it was all for either comfort or entertainment, and he didn’t think either constituted joy, only complacency or diversion. Out it all went.
The bedroom was just as easy, now he knew what he was doing. The bed was an object he slept on. The bed linen and duvet were part of the bed, when he thought about it. Clothing? Not in the least joyful – it was to keep him warm and dry, or to wear at work. And without clothing the wardrobe was redundant and utterly joyless.
In the bathroom, he realised that he had too much medication and too many toiletries. What was the use of smelling nice and looking clean and neat if it didn’t bring joy? The razor, the toilet paper, the toothbrush and toothpaste, painkillers, eye drops, antiseptic cream – not a single molecule of joy, only vanity and misplaced practicality. Cleaning materials? Was there any call for it with nothing to wash up, no spills to worry about, and no shoes to track dirt in. He binned it all. The toilet rolls gave him pause, but he decided that they too could go – after all, his distant Lower Palaeolithic ancestors had not had access to Andrex, quilted or otherwise. Nature would undoubtedly take care of itself
He sat on the floor of his now totally bare flat, naked and unburdened. But he wasn’t quite finished. Electricity and water didn’t spark joy – what was the point of survival without that flutter, that glorious tokimeku? – so he called the utility companies and had them cut off. Money was useful but not joyous, so he used the online banking app to transfer it all to charity. Did the flat give joy? No, it was just where he lived and kept all that stuff that had now gone, so he called an estate agent and had it put up for sale. Did his job bring him joy? Far from it, so he phoned his boss and told the self-important moron exactly where to shove it. He stared at his phone, which had never brought joy, only scam calls and awkward conversations with friends, family and colleagues, none of whom he needed, and none who provided that precious flutter. He threw it out of the now uncurtained window.
At last, his life was wholly minimalist. And it was all he had left, just a body filled with joyless life. He gazed down at himself but did not feel that tell-tale flutter. It was, after all, only the thing he walked around in. A shell. It did not bring him joy. Age and disappointment had seen to that.
The window of his tenth-floor flat was open. It was a beautifully warm, sunny day. Eyes tightly closed, naked as the day he was born, only his hair fluttered on the way down, and for one brief moment he felt fulfilled.
Then there was no need for joy at all.