I owned a house once.
I followed the ideal of earning enough to have a little slice of Britain to call my own. I cherished, I repaired, I maintained. I owned it for long enough to know every brick, every nuance, every problem. I came home every night to that house. I felt bound to that house.
Eventually the house owned me.
Now I cannot bear the thought of owning a house. The bricks and mortar are physical metaphors for a permanence that I do not feel I can subscribe to. All stone crumbles to dust eventually. I now worship transience of rental. I am free to move any time I want, free to live, and free to breathe.