I came across this essay in the Paris Review titled "A Well-Contained Life". I appreciated the reflection it offered on how sometimes the containers we buy for our endless amounts of stuff can sometimes become just more stuff in themselves.

I have certainly been seduced many times in my life by the promises The Container Store seems to make about what my life could be like if only I had just the right containers for every thing. And I have bought some of those containers - some of the small ones, and some of the big ones. My house is still kinda messy a lot of the time; my thoughts often still feel unorganized at times and my to-do list still grows and grows. I've got various bins and bags for my toddler's toys; she takes great delight each morning in immediately dumping out onto the floor whatever I had just put away the night before after she went to bed. So it goes.

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