It’s unsettling and alienating to see my whole life’s possessions packed into a small storage container. A bed, desk, bike, music equipment, clothes, and so many heavy boxes of books. At first, there’s the faint tug: “Wow, if this small closet is everything you’ve amassed, you really haven’t come far at all.”
The feeling subsides quickly. In a permanent residence, it’s easy to become comfortable and complacent. Accumuluting stuff is inertia, and soon you’ve made a nest that’s impossible to abandon. I’d like to think that my small footprint means I examine critically and retain only the minimal set of what I need; the more desperate truth is that by living small I won’t have to commit, and I won’t be pinned in place.
A great advantage when flying away.