I ran a bath for the first time since my childhood. The water was slightly too hot, my skin lightly scalded as I slipped in. The hotel soap was scented, jasmine, its perfume rose gently from the suds. I sat still and listened to the city as it drifted slowly through a frosted window, the cold fresh air of the night seeping into the room, tiled and steaming. I submerged myself. And when I sat up again, my eyes stung from the soap and my hair clung to my back and water started dripping down my spine. It caressed my skin as it ran down my torso, fell absentmindedly back into the tub. I thought about magnetic fields, attractive forces, two things rushing towards each other at the command of nature itself. I wondered whether it could all be explained by sloping lines of equations and numbers crammed onto a page, every moment following an invisible script. I study physics because my biggest hope was once to find truth in the abstract and hold on tight . But the world is still impenetrable and dizzying, I’m disoriented and panting, I’m grasping empty air, my fingers splayed into nothingness.

I heard a distant beat. There was a night club nearby. I wanted to follow the music, to feel the weight of my body leaning on a sticky bar. To move quietly through an air choked with desire, a place that is filled with something intangible and breathless. Bodies, shameless and intoxicated, moving lustily against each other to that desperate rhythm, hands sliding against unfamiliar skin. It’s the sort of place where things can be left unsaid and they don’t rot but instead dissolve into eye contact and fingers clutching at hips and tongues pressed against necks bitter with perfume.

I sunk into cold white linen. I was alone, at the mercy of my senses, distracted by the sound of shutters rattling against limestone. I opened my window, inhaled, swallowed the city’s breath. I stared down into the midnight street below. Two lovers were huddled together, their bodies pushing into each other until they became one huge and misshapen form. I heard quiet laughter and leather soles trotting gently across cobblestones. Did they realise that they were being watched? If they had looked up, they might have seen me, pale and burning, my gawking face thrust from a fourth floor window. But they were too absorbed in themselves, lost in the air of the night and intent on closing every gap between them, walking steadily towards a dim bedroom where flesh is no longer a boundary but an entrance. I lay on my back. My hair spread on the pillow, damp and smelling faintly of jasmine soap. I held tightly onto the bed frame. The walls was patterned with those shadows unique to furniture in summer moonlight. When did everything become so fragile and important?

There is something so inimitable about physical books. They adhere to the passage of time in such a beautiful way. Paper clings to stains and pen marks and folds. Their scents change gradually from a clean, slightly woody profile to a distinct, oddly sweet smell sometimes termed as bibliosmia. Each book holds two stories. One is written in the words it contains, the other emerges from time and place. Although many could hold claim to owning the former, the latter remains unique to every copy.

I never bother with trying to keep books pristine. My copies are ridden with cracked spines, dog ears and annotations. They are prone to being stuffed with post-its, sentences clumsily underlined in gel pen, the odd splash of morning tea on a page. Examining a book from my shelf hints at all the places it has accompanied me to. A beach read may have some lingering sand between the pages. Reading on public transport often means that the underlining becomes shaky, extends haphazardly, obscuring letters or entire words. Consecutive dog-ears indicate that it was read in quick bursts. The pen colour suddenly changes because I ran out of my signature navy that day. Every blemish has an explanation. Each book could only be mine.

To me, a filled bookshelf is the most intimate piece of furniture. It’s a history of the two most important aspects of myself. It tracks my academic interests; the parts of history I spend months obsessing over, the philosophy that I pored over, the authors that I kept seeking out. And then the physicality of each book gives it an anchoring somewhere in my world. I remember when and where each book was bought. It may hail from the secondhand bookstore in the town I used to go to school in. Or from my favourite crammed little bookstore in Zurich. A physical book ends up becoming a lot more than just the words it contains.

I moved to London in mid-September, right when the evening air started to become fresh and crisp. Before the move, I would spend my twilights curled up on the flimsy wire bench at the edge of the lake next to my house thinking about what the move would bring with it. I would take the same circular walk that I used to take everyday when we first moved to this house five years ago. I’d look at the thatched cottages and the huddling geese and pick swelling blackberries. It really felt like I was becoming my own person in a lot of ways.

There is a small boat moored on the right hand side of the lake, nestled in a corner between a towering willow tree and a small path leading around the perimeter. It’s been there ever since we first moved, and I’ve never seen it out. It’s covered with a thick tarp where rainwater pools, and leaves and cattails gather in the summer. Last year, I found it uncovered and decided to try and board. I stepped haphazardly onto the tiny deck, sat on the small bench inside, and felt the water swell and fall underneath me. It felt wrong, but I didn’t want to leave. I imagined rowing the boat into the small island in the middle of the lake, hauling it up onto the dirt shore and watching the owner’s incredulous face as he realised what had happened. The boat felt symbolic to me in a lot of ways. It was tied up in this little cove, yet it would agitatedly bob up and down or shift according to the wind, and thinking about driving it away felt akin to freeing a prisoner. It was like a friend, something constant and reliable.

At the start of this autumn I was excited for a new beginning, for change. I felt under a lot of pressure in many different ways. My home life was becoming increasingly turbulent, and I felt guilty for being able to move away and forget about it. I also needed to focus on maintaining my relationships from home, as well as forging new ones at university. I was faced with a lot of different things to adapt to at once. I tried to hold onto old routines which inevitably slipped away, and my relationship of over two years also ended up falling apart. It feels like nothing has been constant and familiar the way it used to be. My steady daily walk through the brambles and the cottages became an art form of dodging and weaving on Oxford Street. The quiet bench by the lake became sharing a bench with a stranger by the Serpentine. My routines feel more public yet more anonymous.

Returning home now in the last month of the season, my life feels a lot more out of my control than it used to be. I see now that I was putting all my weight onto fraying ropes and expecting them to hold. But I’ve come to realise that I can’t change people or circumstances. I can’t rely on what used to give me security. Autumn has a way of teaching you to let go gently- of colour, of lingering summer warmth, of certainty. I haven’t visited the boat yet, but I won’t expect it to be there. I’ll be happy if it still is, though. And maybe I’ll drive it into the middle of the lake, turn the engine off, and just let the water do the directing.

I keep thinking about the idea of an objet petit a, taken from Lacanian psychoanalysis. Here’s my best attempt to explain it: imagine running barefoot in a field of grass in the early morning. The cold dew is pressing against the soles of your feet, you’re breathing in the sharp, crisp air of the morning, your heart is beating against your chest like a caged animal. It feels intoxicating, animalic, like being drunk on life. Of course, it’s impossible to describe. There is always something that is going to be left out, there is always going to be a gap between the experience and the description, or as Žižek would put it, the ‘integration into the symbolic order’. This is what the objet petit a is; the residue of what symbols cannot explain. It is also the ultimate cause of desire and the reason we can’t stop wanting. We desire the abstract- safety, freedom, success, the feeling of running barefoot in the grass. The fundamental inadequacy of these symbols is two-dimensional; they are so abstract that they feel both unexplainable and unattainable. Yet, we still desire, because we are kept just one kernel away from fulfilment.

This objet petit a has a larger societal significance: politicians often use concepts such as freedom, justice and equality in ultimately meaningless slogans. Promising the abstract is a surefire way to avoid accountability; if ‘freedom’ cannot be universally defined, it’s impossible to ascertain whether or not it is being delivered. Societal structures such as the law, the government and the police are also often founded on these principles. Being a citizen of a state means relying on assumptions. We assume that if we commit a crime, we will be arrested and put on trial. We assume that a network of cameras enables us to be tracked if need be. We assume a knowledge and morality in the Other which does not necessarily exist, but the important thing is the ‘as if’. As long as the state appears to be omniscient, to embody morality and justice, it effectively is.

Kafka’s book ‘the Trial’ is essentially about the traumatic nature of a confrontation between an individual and the bureaucracy. Josef K. finds himself being arrested for a crime that he is never told about, at the mercy of a court that he cannot understand and only able to obtain long, complex and senseless answers everywhere he turns. He is constantly in unfamiliar and strange places, surrounded by arbitrary rules and unable to apply any order to his situation. Every time he attempts to make sense of his situation by assuming knowledge in the Other (for example, the lawyer or the court painter) he is disappointed and left in even more confusion.

In the Sublime Object of Ideology, Žižek refers to an episode in ‘the Trial’ about the Door of the Law. This is a parable told by a priest that K. meets. It is about a man who spends his entire life waiting to gain access to the Law, which he is told is behind a series of doors. He is told by a doorkeeper that he may not access the door until he is told to, and he waits for years and years until he is at the end of his life and still waiting. At the very end of his life, he asks ‘if everyone strives to attain the law, how does it come about, then, that in all these years no one has come seeking admittance but me?’. The doorman then replies, ‘No one but you could gain admittance through this door, since the door was intended only for you. I am now going to shut it.’

In this case, the subject experiences that his desire to know the Law was incorporated in this door from its very beginning; the door was created to capture this desire. The man assumed knowledge in the Other (the assumption that the doorkeeper could let him it at a specific point in time), therefore constructing the figure of the doorkeeper in terms of this knowledge. This is why he fails to discover that he will never be let through the door; he never realises that his desire is realised in the symbol of the door. The Door of the Law is a metaphor for the unknowable reality that is structured by our own fantasies and desires. It is the reason that K. is unable to be acquitted; in the search for meaning in the Other, one comes face to face with the objet petit a. In ‘desperately seeking a trait with which to identify’, the Kafkaesque subject fails to confront the inadequacy of the symbolic order until it is too late.

K.’s death is a culmination of the isolation he faces in this strange and unknowable world. He is dragged away and forced to lie on the ground. Looking up, he sees a light flicker on through a window, and a pair of arms spread out. He questions who it is: ‘A friend? A good person? Someone who was taking part? Someone who wanted to help? Was he alone? Was it everyone? Would anyone help?’. This is his final call for help from the Other. This shadowy figure, this ambiguous pair of arms comes to represent both someone who is ‘taking part’ and someone who ‘wanted to help’. Or, perhaps, ‘everyone’. Of course, no one answers his call. He dies with a knife in his heart, feeling that the ‘shame will outlive him’, still desperately seeking meaning in a system that offers only silence.

The structuring of society around the ‘as if’ fundamentally denies this gap between what is real and what is written, drawn, talked about. We take the easy way out; we create our own fantasies in order to deny the objet petit a, to lessen the trauma of an unknowable world, because there is no way we cannot. Kafka’s work is so enduring because of this painfully abstract world of symbols that we live in. And as shown by the story of K., any attempt to make sense of such a world, to chase our desire for the unknowable, ends with the pain of knowing that the Other will not come to help.

a spring afternoon is the perfect time to sit outside with a paperblanks notebook and attempt to carve my thoughts into paper. The result: hilariously bad poetry, lacking in both form and substance, sitting proudly between my attempts to understand Hegel and a very abstract sketch of a bird. It’s the attempt that counts, isn’t it?

2. obsessively doing laundry

this April, I have been physically unable to let my laundry basket fill up. Every sunny day is an excuse to indulge in the routine of stuffing starchy whites into our tired little Bosch along with a healthy dose of Vanish powder, waiting the hour and six minutes required and finally stepping outside barefoot onto the scalding patio to make my way to the sagging washing line. I might be able to hear snatches of my neighbour’s conversations if they are sitting outside, which is also always a bonus, as I can bring home reports of Julie’s plans for a pergola alongside my empty basket.

3. failing to save money

after vowing to save as much as possible after my return from a mouth-wateringly expensive voyage to the East, I have been indulging (and despairing) in my inability to save. After all, how can I miss out on iced Schweppes and card games in a pub garden? And then there’s cinema tickets to Pride and Prejudice (2005- Keira Knightley’s formidable pout is not to be missed), the updated philosophy section in Waterstones, a range of carefully curated fragrance samples, brandy melville linen pyjamas, an iced hazelnut latte…

4. reading very unpopular books

the type of book that demands you to put the ISBN number into goodreads. An attempt to force myself into forming my own opinions on books without any external influence at all. A good place to find these gems are your local secondhand bookstore; expect to find them in dusty corners and bargain racks. I wouldn’t even bother reading the blurb before diving in.

5. obnoxiously large wide-brim hats

paired with equally obnoxious sunglasses. I want to feel like a caricature of a spy when I go out. The perimeter of the hat discourages strangers from brushing up against me on crowded tube rides, and the sunglasses allow for maximum anonymity. They also hide the fact that my mascara has definitely smudged under my eyes and my eyeliner has migrated outward as far as my temples.

6. honey flavoured Cheerios

there’s no better way to start the morning than a generous portion of honey o’s paired with the kind of milk that comes in a glass bottle with a layer of cream on the top. The thick creaminess of the milk contrasts perfectly with the sharp sweetness of the cheerio and by the end of the bowl the little o’s have become delightfully soggy. Best enjoyed while sitting outside wrapped in a blanket (as spring mornings here are still crisp) reading Baudelaire.

In England, winter makes up around half of the year- the months of October to March are filled with sleet, clouds and frost. The weather itself is easy enough to appreciate. Rain and frost make duvet days so much more cozy. But when you’re outside surrounded by the type of cold that chills you to the bone, spring can’t come quickly enough. This is why a pot of peppermint tea has become essential to my getting through March; whether it’s sipped in a local cafe or at the breakfast bar, it feels like being warmed from the inside.

March is the month that the claws of winter really set in. In theory, it should be spring, however winter lingers well into the middle of the month. Days that should be filled with sunshine are instead occupied by the same grey monotony; winter becomes akin to a guest who has overstayed their welcome.. the whistle of the kettle grows more and more frequent as the month crawls by and I begin to cling to the comfort of peppermint as a toddler does to their mother. It becomes a pillar in my routine, and I search for its embrace at any discomfort; the minty steam does well to calm both a sore throat and an anxious mind.

I can hear the sound of the kettle switch off from upstairs; my mum must be preparing a pot of green tea before bed. She’s steadily chatting to my brother while he gets two large mugs from the cupboard and some lemon juice from the fridge; they will sit at the table and sip and talk until it’s time to sleep. In our family, the teapot has also come to symbolise connection. In the morning, it will be filled with hearty breakfast tea and evenings mean green tea with lemon. We will barely finish a cup each, as sips are sandwiched between fragments of conversation; nevertheless, the pot sits stoutly in the middle of the dining table, the water quietly going cold.

A teapot has come to represent a lot of things for me. It is routine, comfort and family. As March drags by, I reach for it fondly, trying to make the most of the last whisper of winter.

I remember the first time my parents called me out on it, using the phrase ‘spending addiction’. Upon googling this, thousands of articles were available at my disposal; ‘How I Overcame My Spending Addiction’, ‘Shopping Addiction Treatment’, ‘Do These Symptoms Describe You?’. I even found the website of a shopping rehabilitation centre in Switzerland. I was shocked that my hobby could be described in the same terms as someone addicted to drugs or alcohol and refused to take it seriously. The same phrases were repeated over and over; the ‘euphoria’ upon checking out, the ‘shame and distress’ after said shopping and then rushing back to shopping as a comfort to perpetuate the cycle. The truth is, although I identified strongly with some of the points from these articles, it felt like they never quite hit the mark. The words ‘recovery’, ‘intervention’ and ‘treatment’ all felt so clinical and cold, it was almost amusing that they were being used for something as harmless as shopping. So, I continued.

Upon the advent of Tiktok, I found solace in those similar to me, mindlessly scrolling through the hauls of tween Americans as I reassured myself that my spending was far better than any of theirs. I told myself that I only buy things that I will use, things that I resonate with, things that represent myself. I had a checklist in the first page of my school planner composed of everything I wanted to buy at that moment in time, its price, and the website it could be ordered from. I would tick it off when it was ordered, or cross it off when I no longer wanted it. Every item was a step closer to my ideal self. Of course, the list changed with time, but it never really waned. Today, it lives in the notes app of my iPhone, sandwiched in between my thoughts on Gulliver’s Travels and the ingredients necessary for a homemade tiramisu.

I wish I still had access to every version of this list. I could get a glimpse into the life of every corresponding version of myself because, to me, that is what each list represents. The construction of the list is an exercise in self-reflection. I search dusty corners of the Internet to discover the item that I never knew I wanted; but, upon seeing it, tells me that I wanted it all along. It’s often a mix of trendy and personal, blending my cookiefied persona with my offline self. Looking at it feels like looking in a mirror; it is a perfect patchwork quilt of all my desires, and the complete list feels like a work of art in itself. Each object represents fragments of my inner self; the Le Creuset bread oven is a nod to my sourdough hobby, which in turn reflects the fact that I am artistic yet precise. The cotton Paddington pyjamas manifest from my love of comfort, and my appreciation for nostalgia. I firmly believe that a wishlist is the way to deduct the most about the shopping-afflicted. It is the anchor we cling to as a parasite clings to its host- a lifeline and a tether, a guide to our desires and a force that shapes them.

The objects I desire aren’t just things- they are artefacts of selfhood which anchor me in a society that demands me to be fluid. To buy is to choose, and to choose is to assert control. The careful consideration of colour, the choice between different styles and the weighing of the price against the value- these are not mindless acts of consumption. They are deliberate acts of curation, manifestations of my inner self.

The majority of articles about spending pinpoint shame, distress and low self-esteem as the primary motivations. This is what I could never identify with. To me, shopping was not a response to feeling dissatisfied with myself; rather, shopping was a way in which I could affirm my individuality. My wishlist doesn’t remind me of what I lack, rather, it reminds me of who I am, whispering to me, ‘There is no one quite like you’.