The Consumer
The Consumer
By Lataurus
The veil wrapped around me, snug and familiar, like sheets on a cold Sunday morning. Uninvited yet persistent, light slipped through my window—a pale gray bloom spreading across every corner of the room. Soft but inescapable, it touched the walls, the floor, and even the edges of my thoughts.
Her voice came next, low and soothing, like the hum of distant waves.
"Stay," she murmured, almost pleading. "Just a minute more."
It wasn't a command but an invitation, and I found myself sinking deeper, her words as much a weight as they were a comfort.
This was the Spirit of Consumption: a presence veiling my mind, blurring the clarity I sought. She didn't speak of love—she never did. Love wasn't her currency. She dealt in things—objects, fleeting pleasures, hollow victories. And in surrendering to her with each click of "buy now," I realized my heart was emptier every time, even as my room swelled with faded triumphs.
Shelves lined with indulgences crowded my space, and closets overflowed with items I scarcely remembered choosing. Emotions lay hoarded like a dragon's treasure, guarded yet unexamined. From the comfort of my bed, I watched these emotions parade before me, searching for the most authentic version of myself amidst the clutter.
I saw that self crouched behind endless subscriptions and notifications, hands clutching fistfuls of Earth, trying to break free. How did I end up in this pine box in the first place? I wondered, gripping an imaginary touch-screen shovel in my right hand while glancing at alerts that vied for my time.
As I browsed, I dug deeper into a bottomless void, realizing there might be no actual floor beneath my feet here on Earth. Japan seemed impossibly distant—like the memories of her smile or the missing gaps of time I'd traded for scrolling. The Spirit whispered again: Another drop, so lovely, so fleeting. In a heartbeat, I forgot the shoes I'd bought in three consecutive weeks, each pair a different color but adding the same emptiness to my closet.
Apple Vision Pro: $3,500 plus tax.
A trip to Norway: $3,000.
But to see the northern lights reflected in her eyes? Priceless.
I wished you could see her as I did—how the moonlight kissed her peanut butter skin, soft and warm, rippling like ocean waves that moved without care. She had no price tag, no "buy now" or "pay later." Like water, she was fluid, free, and untamed, like the wild horses running across Wyoming's windswept plains.
A shared life, I realized, is a rope thrown into the depths of our souls, something we can grasp only if we find the courage to love. Yet love has its own cost—not in dollars, but in presence, in time. Forsaking it for screens, gadgets, and frantic purchases sent a flood over the world inside me until I became a dead man floating, adrift among reasons that no longer mattered.
"Do you want more?" she asked again, her voice as steady as my doubt.
I wanted to say no.
But how do you tell the Spirit of Consumption that what you want—what you need—isn't hers to give? Each of her gifts came with the debt of losing myself further, like those who've sacrificed their lives over a pair of shoes or those who've chased social status until they became strangers in their own mirrors.
In that same mirror, I found my reflection hidden under layers of dust and cracks, my thoughts bound by chains, the unspoken addiction of wanting more. The fire burning inside me was a pit where I'd tossed my emotions until nothing but ashes remained. Time, left to false desires, built the very bed on which I lay.
And yet, my heart still beat for more somewhere within—just not the more sale pitches or blinking billboards, limited-edition drops, or the slightly faster phones. I'd forget not the monthly subscriptions, the yearly price hikes, or the YouTube influencer peddling freebies with a plastic grin. Not the single guy hawking his course on speaking to women like a commodity.
Even as the Spirit of Consumption played her soft medley in the halls of my mind, love sat idle, letting me swim in the unfulfilling victories of every want I mistook for need. Each click, each purchase, carried a cost—a loss of time, a loss of meaning, a loss of the love I'd left waiting.
The truth weighed heavy in the air: love asks for vulnerability. Vulnerability means shedding the veil and exposing what lies beneath—the hollowness that chokes us when we stop devouring distractions. It means stepping beyond the comfort of consuming and into the unknown to leave footprints in the sand alongside someone, hand in hand, as twilight falls.
The moon's fire flickered gently, a soft counterpoint to the sun's candle fading on the horizon. Love leaned back into my arms while Earth's energy released in a hush, blessing us with a dance of shimmering light—emerald, rose, and violet painting the sky. No words intruded here, no TV hummed with ads, only the waves of love we willingly consumed together.
I know I cannot change the past. I also know the Spirit of Consumption will never leave this room entirely. She is part of me, as I am part of her. The power of over-needing is a choice—a war I may not win, but I can still fight by deciding what to feed. Making my way into the kitchen, I felt my smile return. My love sneezed at the scent of cracked pepper, and with a playful remark, I savored her grin. We consumed laughter together, not the empty kind but the kind that fills the soul.
This is the consumption that breathes life into me. In my heart, running, playing, staying young, living freely, and genuinely loving hold the highest value. I hope you find your own path as your eyes travel these lines.
Consumptions.