A Man Who Can’t Be Owned By Anything

There’s a certain peace that comes when you stop wanting so damn much.

Not because you’ve transcended desire like some bald monk humming in a cave, but because you’ve finally realised most of your wants aren’t even yours. They were installed — whispered by adverts, culture, convenience. You were trained to want.

I used to chase those whispers too. I thought peace meant more. More comfort, more options, more noise to drown out the quiet parts of me I didn’t yet understand. But over the years, I’ve stripped it all back. I sharpened my blade not through addition, but subtraction.

The man I am now could live from a 90-litre pack. I’ve done it. Tent. Knife. A few tins of sardines. A body that moves through the world without complaint. I don’t panic when the Wi-Fi cuts out. I don’t whimper when a week of food looks more like a siege ration than a feast. There’s peace in the silence, in the ache, in the rhythm of existing without need.

That man — the one who needs little — is dangerous.

Not because he seeks violence, but because nothing can enslave him.

Most men are owned.

Owned by appetites, by comfort, by glowing screens.

They bark and scroll and call it freedom. They’re domesticated wolves pretending to be wild. But a man who can’t be owned by anything? He’s chaos to the system. Unpredictable. Free.

And freedom — real freedom — terrifies people.

That’s why we train for it.

You fast to remember hunger won’t kill you.

You walk until your feet hate you, and they still carry you anyway.

You eat tinned food to remind yourself that flavour is a privilege, not a right.

You sleep under canvas and rain to remember that shelter isn’t four walls — it’s you.

I once spent three days in silence. No phone, no music, no chatter. Just thought, breath, and the sound of my own heartbeat. It was brutal — and beautiful. Then thirty days of walking ten miles a day, no rest days, no excuses. My feet and ankles complained every morning, but I walked anyway. Took different routes. Discovered new corners of the world — and of myself.

You learn your limits that way. And once you know them, you can surpass them.

Because how can you conquer what you refuse to measure?

Do you know your maximum squat weight?

How many pushups you can do in one set?

How long it takes you to run a mile?

We track everything — income, taxes, budgets, analytics — yet we know nothing of ourselves. There’s something deeply broken about that truth. The body is the most important ledger you’ll ever keep, and most people have never opened the book.

The moment you start testing your limits, you start meeting yourself. The real you. The one beneath comfort, beneath indulgence, beneath all the noise.

But here’s the thing — the more you strip away, the more you start noticing what’s left. The world becomes vivid again. The small things pierce through.

An old couple holding hands in the street.

The gentle flutter of a bird’s wings.

The absurd determination of a squirrel dragging away the sunflower heads I left beneath my tree. I stood there watching, in drizzle and grey skies, and I smiled. Because while the day was miserable, I wasn’t.

That’s the secret most men miss: the simpler the life, the richer the awareness.

A lean life is a sharp life. A streamlined man can conquer anything.

Your money goes unspent until it’s needed.

The sugary goods lose their pull.

Food becomes fuel. Indulgence becomes appreciation, not routine.

You start hearing your own pulse again — and you realise it beats in time with the earth itself.

The trees breathe out, you breathe in.

The ocean draws back, you exhale.

The sand cleans you, the salt toughens you, the mountains realign you.

You begin to see the rhythm, the rhyme, the symmetry of it all — and you understand: you’re not apart from this world, you are it.

Our phones can’t capture it. These words can’t replicate it.

Because it isn’t something you see — it’s something you remember.

We were built for this.

To live simply. To move. To breathe. To be grateful for the smallest of miracles.

And once you’ve felt that — really felt it — you’ll never need much again.

Because what can disturb a man who needs nothing, yet notices everything?

He walks lightly. Eats simply. Speaks rarely.

He laughs at hardship because he’s known worse and thanked it for coming.

He measures his limits and finds peace in their edges.

He watches the world with open eyes and an open heart, grateful to still be here among it.

That is the man who can’t be owned by anything.

He is lean, calm, unhurried.

He carries little, but lives much.

He knows that every possession carries a leash — and he’s cut them all.

Poetic Partners

Poetic Partners is a new idea I’ve had that offers up a piece of poetry to run alongside the original thought-piece. You can read the poetic partner of this ramble here:

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this post ☺️ I’ll be writing many like this over the next few months. Thought-pieces, reflections, poetic ramblings, mini-adventures and such. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below, and check out my currently active three day fast below. I’m 13 hours in and I’m starting to feel it already… Just another 60 to go!