The Paradox of Temporary Luxury
Luxury used to mean permanence—marble, gold, things measured by how long they would outlast a life. Now some of the most luxurious things are temporary: time, attention, experiences that exist only as they are being used. A candle sits squarely in this paradox: fifty hours that have value only when you spend them.
Owning the object isn’t the point; using it is. Endings change perception. The last third of a bottle tastes different; the final pages read with a tremor; the final burn glows brighter in memory, if not in lumen. I avoid stretching the ending across scraps of nights. I give it one long, deliberate evening. Ceremony without fuss.
We could design eternity—refill systems, interchangeable inserts, a promise that the jar need never be empty. Many do. But the limit is what sharpens attention. Temporary luxury demands participation. It asks: are you here or not? Are you noticing or just consuming? It doesn’t apologise for ending; it leverages it.
When the wick sinks and the glass cools for the last time, something remains that wasn’t there before: the memory of hours witnessed and made better by light. Temporary, yes. But not disposable. The paradox resolves itself: what ends can still last where it matters.
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