There was a time when success wasn’t measured by a fancy title or a fat paycheck. It was tangible. It was the feeling of your name on a piece of paper that said, “This is mine.” People would build a house brick by brick, with the kind of pride that only comes from knowing it would last. That house wasn’t just a building; it was a family heirloom, a generational project.
Back then, everything was about permanence. You bought a car and you ran it into the ground. You bought furniture and you hoped to pass it down. Software? You installed it once, probably a pirated copy from a shady market in the city, and used it until the floppy disk became a museum piece. The goal was to acquire, to accumulate, to feel that solid, unshakeable pride of ownership. Your possessions weren’t just things; they were chapters in your life story.
But now? Now, the world feels like a giant library where everything is on a short-term loan.
I saw an ad the other day for a “coffee subscription.” A daily cup delivered to your door. I mean, seriously? What’s next? A subscription for breathing? A monthly plan for your childhood memories?
The old models of ownership are gone. We don’t own movies; we subscribe to Netflix. We don’t own a car; we call an Uber. We don’t own software; we pay a monthly fee. You can even rent your clothes, your furniture, your entire life. It’s all about need-based, short-term commitments.
And I get it. There’s a certain freedom in it. If you don’t like that fancy dining table you impulsively bought, you don’t have to go through the painful process of trying to sell it on some second-hand app, haggling with strangers, and then feeling the pang of regret. You just cancel the subscription, and poof, it’s gone. Downsizing is as easy as an unsubscribe button.
But this got me thinking. If we’re getting so used to this subscription model for our things, what’s stopping us from applying it to our lives?
What if friendships became a monthly subscription? You pay with your time and attention, and as long as both people are interested, the subscription renews. But the moment one person decides they’re not getting enough value, they just… unsubscribe? It’s a terrifying thought. A relationship, like a new mobile app, is exciting for a while, but what if a newer, shinier, more “convenient” friend comes along? Do we just uninstall the old one?
This mindset, this short-term, low-commitment way of being, is a bit scary. It’s like we’re constantly on the lookout for a better deal, a better service, a better plan. The idea of building something that lasts—a house, a career, a friendship—feels… old-fashioned. Like something out of a sepia-toned movie.
Maybe it’s just the natural evolution of things. Maybe this is a good thing. A world with less clutter, less baggage, less emotional attachment to things that don’t really matter. But then, there’s a part of me that longs for the permanence of a well-built home. The idea that some things are meant to last.
I don’t know where we’re heading. All I know is that if a friendship subscription becomes a thing, I’m sticking with my pirated, lifetime-license friends. They might be a little buggy, but at least I know they’re not going anywhere.
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