My House is Burning Down: A Commentary on Consumerism

By Alexandriana Davis

My house is burning down, and I feel nothing.

I watch from the sidewalk as beautiful flickers of red and orange descend into the depths of my home. Wood crackles and sizzles, beams giving way. I listen carefully, awaiting the moment when the furniture finally cannonballs through the floorboards. All my belongings, all I have ever known, are gone.  

And all I can feel is relief.

I recall the moment I first realized I wanted out. It was after my first year of consuming social media. They told me I wanted to buy this; they told me I needed this to survive. I bought into their schemes, for I was taught to be a consumer, just like everyone else. I thought I was doing the right thing for myself. I believed their tales that I could never have enough. But as the piles of clothes and miscellaneous items began to overflow, I realized I could not live like this. I was overwhelmed. This world I had created felt inescapable.  

I had officially gone from being the consumer to being consumed.

Now, as I stare at all my belongings burning to the ground, I take a breath of fresh air. I no longer have anything to tie me down. I can start anew. Is it wrong to almost feel satisfied?

The stars smile unknowingly above, and I feel the glimmer of freedom I had been searching for. I do not care about the burning couch or the shimmery watch. I do not care about my bed or my clothes. I do not care. I just wish to be free from it all.

My mind begins to wander as I try to find some inkling of remorse for what I had done. Freedom from consumerism could not possibly come without a price. I glance up to where my bedroom had been, the place that used to be my haven. I start to recall everything I had lost: the shoes, the blankets, the box.

The box.

Suddenly, I realize there were more belongings in that fire than I had accounted for. In my rage, I seemed to have forgotten about all the letters my best friend wrote to me. The porcelain doll my grandmother gave me before she passed. All the journals I had written my memories in. The photographs of me with my childhood friends.  

Tears start to flow out of me in rivers.

The items of societal value, the watch, the jewelry, mean nothing to me. It is the items that have no value to anyone else that are important. The memories that had been kept alive in those small, seemingly insignificant things.  

I collapse onto the sidewalk, defeated. I do not care about my “valuables.” I only care about my memories. I wish to remember my loved ones. I wish to remember the adventures I went on. I wish to remember living.

A hand rests gently on my shoulder. One of my neighbors. I’m sure they can tell I am in pain, but I doubt they know the true reason why. 

What a complicated feeling it is, to feel everything and nothing all at once.

Disclaimer: This is fiction. Please do not actually burn your house to the ground.