Wake up at the exact moment the first rays of cool gray sunlight pass through your window. You need no alarm clock. An alarm clock is an object. An object is clutter. Stretch silently on your crisp, white sheets. Rub your legs together. Sunwarmed hairless legs on crisp white sheets. Ahh.
You are a minimalist.
You are ready to wake up, because it is morning, and you are a minimalist, and minimalists love the morning, and the morning loves minimalists.
Sit up and examine the room. Your bed is a mattress which sits on a floor that is dark walnut hardwood and dust-free. Seven out of your eight worldly possessions are collected in the armoire in the corner.
(The armoire is your eighth worldly possession.)
Breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth. Your morning breath tastes fresh, like spring air, because you have destroyed all your worldly possessions and are simple and clean.
Rise and stretch again. You do not hold onto anything for balance as you stretch because there is nothing else in the room. Just the crisp-sheeted mattress and the window and the armoire and you. Your bones make no noise as you crack your back. Bone-noises are auditory clutter. You donated your bone-noises to the Goodwill. What need did you have for them?
Still fully naked, go to the bathroom.
This morning, as every morning, your urine is perfectly clear, like a mountain stream. Recall mornings there, too, in the mountain, by the stream. Mornings. Mountains. Streams. Ahhh.
You might brush your teeth, but you donated your tooth brush. Instead, examine and admire your perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth in the mirror. Whisper admirations to them. “You are simple. So, so simple. Simple teeth that are simply clean.” Open your top drawer, where exactly four mint leaves sit perfectly aligned on a folded white towel. Place one mint leaf on your tongue. Close the drawer. Close your lips and teeth. The mint leaf will soon be destroyed slowly by your saliva and digestion. All things not currently in use must be destroyed. This is an ideal situation.
Leave the bathroom. Proceed along the hallway, on a floor that is also of dark walnut hardwood. Trace your perfectly trimmed, unpolished fingernails along the white walls. Do not turn on any lights because by now the cool gray sunlight has come in through your many windows, even into the hallways which have no windows.
(Minimalists create their own windows, from the space they make in their lives by having few worldly possessions.)
Enter the kitchen. Here, there is nothing and everything. Here, a fridge creates space. Here, a fridge hides bundles of kale and unspeakable amounts of sprouted, ancient grains. A single kumquat. A dollop of plain yogurt on a beautiful, hand-made plate. A square of rich, dark chocolate.
A French press sits on the counter, waiting, empty, vast. Pour grounds of coffee in, and set a kettle to boil. Watch with brow furrowed as the steam begins to rise. Steam is condensation. Condensation is an object not in use. Condensation is clutter. Condensation is filth. Filth and clutter—you have let this happen. You are superficial and commercial that you have allowed this to happen. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Wipe beads of condensation from every surface with the back of your palm. Wipe the back of your palm onto the exposed skin of your hip. Gone. Gone. Ahhhh.
After you pour the water over the coffee, retrieve a handful of almonds from the cabinet. Place them on the counter and crush them with the heel of your palm on the immaculate granite countertop. Do not wipe your hands, for there are no crumbs. All of the shards of almond fall immaculately to the counter, into their designated place. Good. You have learned.
Eat the almonds off the counter, laying them on your tongue and chewing with your powerful, square teeth.
Pour the coffee into a mug you received from a dear, beloved friend.
Sip the coffee. Stare out one of your thousands of windows into the day beyond. Flowers, ahh. Brick buildings, ahh. Sky, ahh. Simple day. No clutter clouds.
Destroy the mug when you are done with the coffee. Throw it out the window to clutter the already-cluttered world. The mug was a vessel for the coffee, which is gone. Thus the mug is no longer necessary, and must be gone as well. You will receive another from one of your many simple, clean friends.
Return to the bedroom. Open the armoire. Reveal the only garment you own, a single white sheet, embroidered meticulously with the words of your Minimalist Manifesto in thread, also white. Drape yourself in the sheet, tied expertly in key places, such that forms the likeness of a shirt, pants and shoes.
The fabric is soft on every square inch of your skin. It sags nowhere. It pulls nowhere. It puckers nowhere. It smells of fresh air, because each evening you wash it in fresh water in the white fading light. You wash yourself in the same water. You need no soap. Just fresh, fresh water.
Now you are ready to leave the house. Now you are ready to go into the world. Downstairs is your bike, your minimalist bike, with nothing on it, no basket and no bells and no wheels and no spokes. You take it to your minimalist job, standing whole, peaceful, grateful, wise, surrounded by no objects in a big empty space, with thousands of windows.
You receive your minimalist paycheck. It is enough, because you do not require objects for joy. You are joy.
A minimalist is a good thing to be. A good thing and a simple thing. You have your seven objects and your eighth object to keep them in, and your bundle of kale. You have peace. You have a dollop of yogurt. You have your mint leaves, perfectly aligned on the towel. You cannot be touched, except by the fabric. Except by the soft, soft fabric on your smooth, hairless body.
So simple. Ahh. Ahhhhhhhhhh.