I was going through an old box of books recently, when I stumbled upon one of my favorite titles. The Song of Achilles sat before me, looking back at me in all of its glory. Easily my most read and lent out book, it has lived an entire life of its own. Pages brown with age, cover softened, and spine permanently bent from years of being left on cafe tables and cross-country travel.
I flipped through the pages, letting the smell of old pages take me on a journey. This familiar feeling of sitting with something that is yours undeniably. A memento of a time where I’d made a choice to keep something, not for lack of options but because of what it meant to me. A book that carried me through writing slumps and college exams. I love my Kindle as much as the next person, but as I sat with my old copy of The Song of Achilles, I couldn’t help but wonder when I had made the decision to reduce the experience of literature to a file? When had it become satisfactory to lock the screen and take a moment, as opposed to shutting the book and feeling that puff of stale air brush my cheeks while they burn? The E-reader is revolutionary, certainly, but it doesn’t make me feel nearly as connected to the material as a book does.
This has become a prevalent theme as we wade further into digital waters. The idea that it’s preferable, having access to far more media than we could ever possibly consume. In an era of convenience: streaming, clothing rental services like Nuuly and Rent-the-Runway, music borrowing with Spotify or Apple Music, I found myself looking around my room and wondering when the last time I’d collected something was? Sure, I’d gathered a few records during college, and bought a DVD player secondhand so that I could enjoy the titles that I refused to give away from life B.N. (Before Netflix). But, when I really thought about it, I realized that since the start of the pandemic–and arguably the boom of streaming, Amazon, and food delivery–I had only really a small handful of items that had been thoughtfully purchased, carefully selected, and long desired.
Spoon
We roll our eyes at older generations when all they can do is wax poetic about the good ol’days, but arguably, our very own are passing us by, and we’re letting them go in favor of ease. Record shops and bookstores are closing down, because in the year 2025, why would someone take a second to consider making a purchase when they don’t even have to? Open a laptop, and there’s the Criterion Collection, fully restored and in high-definition thanks to streaming services like Kanopy. That jacket you’ve been wanting for several months? For a “small” fee of about $100 a month, it is available to try before you buy, or, better yet, try and then not buy at all. Of course, a conversation like this is nuanced, and as someone who’s been in several different bodies, I understand the appeal of models like these, but don’t you remember what it felt like when you had to take your time? To pay attention?
Historically, big ticket items were coveted for months, and sometimes even years before finally making it home with me–but my God if that didn’t make me absolutely treasure those objects beyond comprehension. The ability to have and to hold and to call something yours. To know that you maybe worked hard to acquire it, or that you had to choose between one thing or another at a time in your life when only one was an option. This film or that, these shoes or those, a coat for now or a swimsuit for later. Our descent into mindless consumerism has taken the meaning out of some of our most precious experiences.
While I understand that there’s an intrinsic value to the evolution that we’ve seen through the information age, I wonder if this massive access that we’re given has distracted us from the plot of acquisition. Acquisition, defined primarily as “to come into possession of something” or secondarily as “coming to have as a new or added characteristic, trait or ability (as by sustained effort or natural selection).”
A new or added…something as achieved through sustained effort. Like the art of learning a new language, or playing an instrument.
We have the ability to take what we please without a second thought. To be noncommittal (of course) and, through this, have been able to avoid: losing money, being disappointed in a purchase, or having to just deal with something that is of no use to us. While all of that is great, I can’t help but think of how being forced to deeply consider something before moving into ownership made those things feel all the more special. How deliberate consumption made something worth showing off, and left me just a little bit giddier after every wear, read, or watch.
I say all of this to say that I don’t believe convenience to be entirely the villain. In all honesty, the digital era offers completely unfettered access to information, art, and connection on a scale the previous generations could have never imagined. We can discover and explore before we commit deeply. The silver lining? We still have the choice to move past passive consumption. We might not need to own every album or every film, but we can still choose to collect the things that truly matter to us. Maybe an album on vinyl that defined our college years through our headphones, or a piece of art found at a seaside shop during vacation. In acquiring things thoughtfully, we reintroduce a necessary friction into our daily choices that directly combats the ever-present and constantly growing claws of convenience. We don’t just collect objects; we collect meaningful experiences, ensuring that the things we choose to own carry a story worth telling.
