Desire Fatigue

Shopping used to feel like flirting; now it’s starting to feel like small talk.

The chase once carried its own voltage—refresh, wait-list, unboxing. Lately the spark flickers out before I’ve hit “add to bag.” Not because I’m over fashion, but because the menu never closes. Every release elbows the last one before I’ve had time to miss it.

This isn’t a vow of minimalism. It’s a pause for palate-cleansing. When everything is served “must-have,” appetite goes numb. Limited drop, same silhouette. Seasonal colourway, same resale slide. Craving turns into calendar management.

Brands keep calling the cycle fresh; I feel more like I’m on a treadmill. So I’m changing the metric: provenance over impulse. If I can’t trace why an object matters—historically, materially, emotionally—it doesn’t cross the threshold. A designer’s stubborn seam, an obsolete clasp, a personal glitch in taste—anything that refuses to be reduced to a swipe is worth a second look.

This isn’t about owning less; it’s about wanting slower. Giving an object the decency of anticipation, the courtesy of context. Desire is currency, and I’d rather spend it on pieces built to outlive the newsletter announcing them.

For now the chase is on hold. If something still calls my name after the hype fog lifts, I’ll answer. Until then, desire can wait outside—and rethink its pitch.