Luxury is a funny thing. Or rather how different people interpret the word.
For some, luxury means having an expensive bag.
For me, luxury is staying on a small patch of grass with my own tent on it on the other side of the road of a gas station and a kettle filled with freshly cooked food together with someone who makes me feel happy.
And as much as many would like to interpret the thing I just said as an attempt to show how shallow the person with the bag is, nothing could be further from my intentions.
I have no idea how anyone in their right mind could procure any significant amount happiness out of a bag, but far be it from me to condemn such a thing.
If owning a bag makes you as happy as I am sleeping under a star filled sky then by all means, get as many bags as humanly possible.
What works for me might be your worst nightmare. And vice versa. We are all different.
So you keep your bag, and I’ll curl up in my sleeping bag. See, we’re not all that different after all.
And to be completely honest, I too am happy to own a bag. Other than the aforementioned sleeping bag that is. It is not of a brand that is commonly seen on pages of Vogue, but it keeps my stuff dry, and that’s already saying a lot.