The last story to tell.

A simple bearded man lived by the creek. He had no clothes except what kept him warm, and he had just enough food to not be hungry. The man did just enough every day to make sure he had that food and those clothes, and the older, established adults of the town hated him for it.

“An eyesore,” they would call him. “A waste of time,” proclaimed others.

Yet, as it has been for all time, the younger adults of the town murmured among themselves at how happy he must be. They looked around their minimalist apartments, and saw where they could reduce their mark, their impact, their stuff. “Homer and Plato lived like that man,” the young people said. “He must know the path to happiness.”

And so, the young people cleared out their belongings, leaving their apartments stark and white. “We must be so close to happiness,” they sung, praising each other for their lack of things, sharing their transformation on Instagram.

After a year, the minimalists decided they should speak the old man, to tell him about how he changed their lives. They came to praise him, and raise him up onto their shoulders.

They traveled to the creek in their white brand-less shoes, trying to avoid the mud. Yet the creek was muddy, and by the time they got to the old man they were covered in mud.

“Hello! Old Man!” The youths called out when they got to his home. “We want to thank you for inspiring us!”

The door creaked open, and the old man’s bearded face poked out. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Nobody, we are just like you!” The old man was confused for a moment, then grew sad and his expression grew grim.

“You are all fools,” he said. “You have lost yourselves to the world of things.”

The youth were confused, and the old man shut the door.

“You will never understand,” the man shouted. “Go away.”

And nobody left.

Inside the house, the old man wept, for what he had was enough, yet it wasn’t enough. He had nothing to represent himself, to separate him from the dust that we all eventually become.