“To progress again, man must remake himself. And he cannot remake himself without suffering. For he is both the marble and the sculptor. In order to uncover his true visage he must shatter his own substance with heavy blows of his hammer.” - Alexis Carrel

I picture a phoenix. What a magnificent mythological creation. I think of the concept of the phoenix and try to imagine why, or rather how, some wise soul ever dreamt up of such a creature. And then it dawns on me. The phoenix is a human being, an allegory. 

In the mythos, the phoenix is an immortal entity—a bird—that regenerates itself cyclically, being born again and again. As its predecessor dies in a show of flames and combustion, the phoenix rises anew from the ashes of its own burnt corpse. Christians took this idea and interpreted as an act of metempsychosis. But they were wrong. This is an act of metamorphosis. As the phoenix is engulfed in flames and its body is shining, brilliantly iridescent, in hues of red and blue, the Phoenix arises once again, reinvigorated, mighty, formidable. He rose from the melted core of its former self, not to the Heavens, mind you, but back to this Earthly realm; not to the promise of eternal bliss, but to the prospect of a life well lived—the opportunity to start anew and to play this game of life again. 

The Talking Heads, specifically Jerry Harrison and David Byrne, referred to Heaven as “a place where nothing ever happens.” And it’s true, isn’t it? How exhilarating does a state of quiescence seem? Is it even desirable? What I am trying to say is that Heaven isn’t a place, nor is it a state. It’s a moment between struggle and pain. It’s the glimmer of light in a vast sea of darkness. That is what life is like—or can be. It is in our nature to struggle, to fight, to overcome. And it is in overcoming that we create Heaven. Life is the single most precious thing in the universe, for it is the universe itself. We’re all fighting for it, every entity is. The d

eath of one being fuels the life of another. Life is the universe’s most spectacular creation, and it is worth preserving and honoring. It may be resilient, but it is fragile. 

No matter what happens to you, you are the Phoenix, and you will rise once again. But to do so, you have to walk through the fire first. I promise you, it’s worth it. 

When I come across a piece of art that captivates me, rarely is it because of its complexity. What enthralls me the most about such pieces of art are their ability to capture bits and pieces of the human condition in an honest, riveting way. They don’t have to be audacious, garish productions, for a spectacle is not necessarily true to life. Some of what I consider to be the very best pieces of art are deceptively simple in their execution, yet they manage to distil the very essence of life’s moments with the utmost sincerity. And make no mistake, the medium is the message. A piece of art that fulfills these subjective criteria like very few can is The Sopranos1. The premise is simple: a New Jersey mob boss, Tony Soprano, seeks professional psychiatric counseling (a cardinal sin within the mafia) after a spate of personal and professional woes causes him to have panic attacks. In its six-season run, the show offers some of the most candid depictions of early 21^st century American society, masculinity, while also offering a fascinating examination of various mental illnesses and plights, such as depression and anxiety. After binge watching the entire series within a week some 5 years ago, The Sopranos quickly became a constant in my life and a staple in my household. I still get giddy when deciding to rewatch the entire show for the umpteenth time, and each time I do I manage to discover some astonishing detail I cannot believe I had failed to notice earlier. The understated beauty of the Sopranos is that it ages with its viewers; the simple human truths encapsulated in the show are perpetually relatable to us as we go through our own trials and tribulations.

              A few years ago, during a particularly dreary period of my life, I happened to be rewatching the first season of The Sopranos, when I came across a rather interesting scene. In it, the titular character of the show, Tony Soprano, is reprimanding his nephew, Christopher, for shooting a civilian in the foot while in line for buns at the bakery. Despite the casual intro to the scene, the conversation quickly shifts to Christopher’s mental anguish. In a moment of uncharacteristic candor, seemingly born out of desperation, Christopher pitifully admits “I don’t know, Tony. It’s, like, just the fucking regularness of life is too fucking hard for me or something.” Needless to say, one need not participate in organized crime to be able to relate to that sentiment. In my moment of quiet desperation, that quote rocked me to my core and forced me to examine what on earth was truly wrong with me. After embarking on my quest to answer this debilitating question, I came to realize that I am not alone in that feeling; even with a clear vision for the future or a crystalized personal statement, our lives can, at times, still feel unfulfilling, or too slow, or plain regular. This “Regularness of life” isn’t necessarily a reference to life’s pacing. It is a more visceral feeling akin to being stuck in quicksand or staring listlessly at your watch’s second hand ticking away. Each new day feels exactly like the one that just preceded it (and the one before that), and the colors of the world around us seem more muted than usual. It’s an alienating emotion, but one that can be resolved.

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Natural Born Thrill-Seekers & The Pursuit of Happiness

Whether we are aware of it or not, each of us is born a thrill-seeker. To chase after a thrilling experience does not always involve taking risks. Thrill-seeking is a highly subjective activity, defined by and tailored to one’s preferences and tolerances. It’s easy to imagine and identify its more ostentatious or extravagant manifestations—the accumulation of obscene amounts of money, the pursuit of status, or climbing of Mt. Kilimanjaro. However, thrill-seeking can assume quieter, gentler forms—the hunt for a rare book, brewing that first cup of coffee in the morning, or making the perfect snow angel on a cold winter’s night. Thrill-seeking, in other words, is the pursuit of subjective novelties. The prospect of obtaining said novelties is enough to create a mighty twinge in our hearts and fill our bellies with butterflies. And when we have finally obtained the fruit of our labor, we deem ourselves happy. Yet, anybody who has ever experienced happiness knows that this state is temporary. Our happiness is followed by “regularness,” a return to our baseline. Don Draper, the main character in the series Mad Men2 captured it perfectly:

This fundamental truth about the fleeting nature of happiness can be incapacitating, making the pursuit of happiness seem like a futile endeavor altogether. This is no way a profound idea, by the way. Entire works of art and schools of thought have been dedicated to addressing this fundamental conflict of life. The Bhagavad Gita forewarns us that “[We] have a right to perform [our] prescribed duties, but [we] are not entitled to the fruits of [our] actions.” The Stoic Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, reminded himself that, “To live happily is an inward power of the soul,” thereby deeming happiness a purely internal affair. And while these words—and the texts whence they are sourced—carry in them a sense of wisdom that is bound to resonate with almost any reader, their sentiment tends to get lost on us. Which, then, begs the question whether we are to blame for it. Are we so starved and desperate for every ounce of thrill and happiness we can get, and the world is just not enough for it? Or is something else clouding our judgment? My take: it’s both.

The Lone Bowler: Loneliness in the 21^st Century

              In this digital age, our interconnectedness seems paradoxical. With the touch of a button, we can broadcast our lives to the world, yet the fabric of genuine human connection appears to be unraveling. The challenges of living in today’s world are stark, and loneliness stands out as a poignant specter that haunts the corridors of our hyper-connected existence. This epidemic of desolation is robbing our lives of the meaning that can be derived from one another’s companionship. Anecdotally, this is a phenomenon that I notice quite distinctly all over the Western world, and specifically within the United States.

              Robert Putnam’s seminal work, Bowling Alone, paints a heartbreaking picture of a society fraying at the seams. The decline of social capital, the weakening of community bonds, and the erosion of shared spaces where people once congregated symbolize a shift towards an atomized experience. No longer do we find solace in the communal act of bowling together; instead, we bowl alone, metaphorically, and literally3.

Numerous studies echo the disquieting trend of increasing isolation4. As our virtual networks expand exponentially, our real, tangible connections diminish. Americans, in particular, find themselves ensnared in a web of loneliness that tightens with each passing year5. And in this landscape of loneliness, the pursuit of happiness becomes a formidable challenge. The “regularness” of life, instead of being a source of comfort, morphs into a canvas of solitude. It’s in this milieu that we grapple with the illusion of invisibility—the perception that everyone else is leading a more exciting and fulfilling life, while we are left to navigate the desolation of our own existence.

Digital Peacocking & the Montagification of Mundanity

              The advent and broad adoption of social media has changed our lives in ways we may not even realize. Now, more than ever before in human history, we can be exposed to one another’s most intimate of moments if we so choose. The architects of these platforms assured us that their creators would usher a new era of understanding and collaboration in the world, where users would be connected to one another in previously unfathomable ways. Instead, what we got are carefully curated highlight reels of others’ lives—a potpourri of who we all wish we were, not who we truly are. In this age of digital peacocking, where everyone is striving to showcase what makes them unique and their lives meaningful, it’s easy to fall prey to inadequacy, feeling that our own existence is trivial. Suddenly, the “regularness” of life becomes a stark contract to the seemingly extraordinary lives others present online. To make matters worse is the phenomenon of what I wryly term the “Montagification of Mundanity,” a reference to Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

In the book’s dystopian world, mundane aspects of life are overshadowed by a constant desire for excitement and stimulation. In the real world, we have managed to take this a step further: we now use flashing lights, upbeat music, and fast-paced video edits to turn the most mundane of tasks into an exhilaratingly delicious nugget of dopamine. It can be as simple as cleaning one’s kitchen, or tidying up one’s bedroom—people transform the most menial tasks into dazzling productions. Don’t get me wrong, I am very much in favor of people infusing a sense of childlike wonder in their humdrum daily routines. The spectators of these montages, however, are faced with the adverse effects of this practice: their chores are still sources of tedium. There is no soundtrack accompanying them, no cheers, no validation, and the very nature of our chores commands their repetition ad nauseum. The constant exposure to others’ thrilling moments can cast our own regular lives in a dim light. However, the antidote to this, and the other malaises mentioned previously, isn’t escaping the “regularness” of our lives but embracing it.

The Beauty in the Regular: Trustin the Process, Not the Premise.

              Despite what contemporary entertainment would have us believe, life isn’t a series of grand events but an accumulation of seemingly mundane moments, each, however, holding its own intrinsic beauty. The initial sip of morning coffee, the quiet satisfaction of finishing a good book, the warmth of a loved one’s embrace on that first truly cold night of the year—these are the subtle joys that weave the tapestry of our lives. It may sound far too poetic or aspirational to be taken seriously, but I consider it a fundamental truth that by fully immersing ourselves into the quotidian and unpretentious we are able to transform the ostensibly unremarkable aspects of our existence into pleasurable moments of solace. To cultivate that sort of mindset can be a struggle, especially when the provincial “game” of life is rigged against us. But the change is possible, as it is not about forsaking our thill-seeking behaviors but striking a brilliant balance that allows appreciation for both the extraordinary and the ordinary alike.

              Revisiting the Sopranos and looking at Christopher’s character arc more closely, one can see why he was overwhelmed with the “regularness” of life. Being Tony Soprano’s nephew and the son of a deceased yet legendary mafioso, Christopher was on the fast track for becoming a so-called “made man.” The promise he showed, combined with the vigor of his youth, created a sense of entitlement in him that made him rather impatient with the rules and timelines underlying the world of organized crime. To some extent, we all can relate to that sentiment. When we place more emphasis on the destination rather than the journey it would take to get there, we become naturally more impatient. All of a sudden, the quieter moments along our journey become deafening, stifling. We are fixated on a predetermined script, and life’s unpredictable narrative becomes a threat to our ambitions. To fight against these asphyxiating emotions, we must actively embrace life’s twists as the very building blocks of who we are. We must learn to trust the process we follow to realize our ambitions, not the premise of those ambitions.

Consider the Tarzan Method6—an analogy that invites us to swing through the jungle of everyday life not by obsessing about a distant destination but by relishing each swing, for each moment suspended in mid-air is a thrilling adventure that gets us closer to where we want to be. Tarzan doesn't leap from vine to vine with a singular focus on the end of the jungle; instead, he finds joy in the journey, the wind on his face, the fleeting touch of each vine. His travels through the thickly vegetated landscape may not be as straightforward or linear as he would want them to be, but as he zigzags from one vine to the next, he knows he is drawing nearer and nearer to his destination.

Intentional Exposure to Struggle

              Finally, it is important to highlight that there is no shame in struggle. If anything, to live and to aspire is to struggle. As our world glamorizes success while sidelining the accompanying struggles, deliberately facing challenges becomes a gateway to personal evolution. The “regularness” of life is not a hindrance but an opportunity to confront adversity head-on, fostering resilience.

Whether undertaking a new project, mastering a challenging skill, or navigating intricate relationships, struggles imbue depth to our experiences. They provide the contrast that renders moments of joy and accomplishment truly profound. Embrace the struggles, for they are the threads weaving the intricate tapestry of a life well-lived.

The Third Pillar: Balance

              Life, like art, is a masterpiece crafted from the seemingly mundane strokes of daily existence. It's not about the grand spectacle, but the honest capture of quotidian moments. When faced with instances of quiet desperation, our lament about the "regularness" of life resonates universally. It's not the pace but the visceral feeling of stagnation, the monotony that challenges our sense of purpose. Yet, this alienation isn't insurmountable; it's a call to rediscover the subtle beauty woven into life's fabric.

In this symphony of “regularness” and thrill-seeking, the key is not to forsake one for the other but to strike a brilliant balance. Life's magic lies in appreciating both the extraordinary and the ordinary, finding joy in the subtle moments that weave the narrative of our existence. As we dance through the regular rhythm of life, we must embrace the beauty in its simplicity, trusting the process and relishing each swing, for therein lies the essence of a fulfilling and meaningful life.

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This week’s reading: Bukowski, Bukowski, Bukowski

Like any self-respecting teenager, I came across Charles Bukowski’s poetry during a severe bout of stick-it-to-the-man-neosis, when everything and everyone seemed unreasonably oppressive and sadistically tyrannical to me. I hated school, I hated what would follow, I hated myself, and I hated the world. Bukowski’s prose offered a fresh perspective; at a time when I felt most out of place, his poetry became my solace and served as a bright light in a deep dark tunnel. Despite my instant admiration for the emotions that Bukowski was able to capture in verse, I never explored his work beyond that. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago, when visiting a dear friend and browsing through a couple of bookstores with him, that I finally decided to delve into Bukowski's novels. 

I started my Buk literary journey with Pulp. This was a bit of an unorthodox approach given that it was the last book he ever published. Written with the knowledge that was he dying, and perhaps somewhat influenced by Lady Death herself, Bukowski infused Pulp with his traditionally irreverent, raunchy, and at times poignant prose. The book reads as a mockery of the Pulp fiction genre as a whole, while at the same time offering an intimate, semi-autobiographical account of a man coming to terms with his life's trajectory. Pulp has some of the most hilarious dialogue I have ever come across in a novel, while at the same time managing to capture life's absurdity in the most brilliant ways. Case in point, this is Nick Belane's—the novel's protagonist's—internal dialogue while in the waiting room of a psychiatrist's office, sitting tight with a bunch of other curious folks:

Bukowski's writing is not for everyone, that much I can attest to. You either love it or you hate it, but the one thing you can't do is ignore it. 
Once I was done with Pulp, I immediately purchased Post Office, the first novel he ever published. I finished it a couple days ago and then immediately went and bought Factotum and Women. There is quite a lot to unpack there, so lest I do it any injustice, I am going to save my impressions for a more expansive future post/review. This would also make an interesting YouTube video, now that I think of it. Perhaps something I ought to experiment with that in the near future…

Movie of the week: The Straight Story

Yet another masterpiece that warrants its own post and an in-depth review. What people consider David Lynch’s most straightforward movie, and what he has dubbed his most experimental film, The Straight Story is a simple, endearing, and powerful retelling of the real-life story of Alvin Straight, who at the age of 73—while suffering from diabetes and emphysema, among other things—traveled 240 miles (390km for my non-American friends) on his 1966 John Deere lawnmower from Laurens, Iowa to Blue River, Wisconsin to visit his ailing brother. With a screenplay that feels like it was written by Ernest Hemingway himself and Lynch’s sagacious directing, this one’s a must-watch.

Coming up next week…

I have been on a Bruce Springsteen kick as of late, developing a deeper appreciation for the man they call “The Boss” with each album of his that I listen to. This coming week I will be listening to a lesser known, at least to the general public and the more casual Springsteen listener, album of his called Nebraska. Stay tuned for my impressions.

Other than that, I am currently working on the next installment of the How Not to Live and Unfulfilled Life series, this time drawing inspiration from the best show of all time: The Sopranos. You can disagree with the “best show of all time” designation, but know that you’d be entirely wrong.

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Share Damn Good Thinking.

Contrary to widespread belief, I am still alive. And so is Damn Good Thinking. 

Following a tumultuous year, multiple false starts on my end, and a steady supply of life's oddities thrown in the mix, we are going to get it right this time. I can only hope that you find the work ahead insightful enough to catch your interest, and engaging enough to make you think. 

In the previous installment of this series, I discussed my relationship with chronophobia, i.e., the extreme fear of time passing. While this bizarre yet all-too-common affliction kept me on my toes for a good decade, discovering the principles of Stoicism and reshaping the expectations and pre-conceived notions I had about life helped alleviate the constant existential angst that was plaguing me. And yet, despite having pored over the wise words of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, I found myself racked with a different sort of dread. This time, however, I wasn't so much concerned about the length of time I had left on this Earth. Instead, I noticed that life tended to move quite hastily—days flashed in front of my eyes like headlights on the Autobahn, and whatever I activity I was engaged in seemed unfulfilling and piddling. After finding a way to cope with the inherent uncertainty of the breadth of life, I was now intensely preoccupied with its pacing. This peremptory issue, while eerily similar in its effects of mental anguish, featured a distinct difference to my previous conundrum: it could be regulated. 

Time Dilations

A quote often misattributed to Albert Einstein goes something like this:

While it's unlikely that Einstein every uttered this exact quote (as its first appearance was in a March 1929 edition of "The New York Times,"1 where it was merely noted that this was one of the anecdotes surrounding Einstein), the quote offers an interesting observation about time: it contracts and dilates. While this can be true of time as a universal concept (as is indicated by the theory of special relativity), it is also true of our perception of time. Any activity we are engaged in, whether actively or passively, can make time feel as though it is speeding by, or dragging on endlessly. Naturally, anyone who has ever had to take a class or lecture in a subject he dreaded has made the same observation. Interestingly, this concept seems to imply that perceived time dilations occur solely in displeasing or otherwise uncomfortable situations. Consistently, it follows that pleasurable activities result in the perceived contracting of time. Well, if that were the case, all any of us would have to do to make our lives feel as long as possible would be to lead the most mundane, unrewarding, stultifying lives possible. Instinctively, that seems wrong. There has to be some sort of balance, a deal, perhaps, that we can strike with Father Time so that the fulfilling moments of our quotidian existence end up lengthening the time we feel we have invested in them rather than shortening it. 

The Economics of Attention

For a while now I have been intrigued, and intimidated, by the effects of modern technologies, food quality, and pollution on our ability to focus. When looking at contemporary technologies, it is no secret that the advent and broad adoption of mobile phones, social media, and portable entertainment devices has resulted in an apparent shortening of our capacity for intense concentration over extended periods of time. One of the more interesting and expansive explorations of this issue is Johann Hari's Stolen Focus. It is a meticulously researched and skillfully composed investigation into the alarming decline of our ability to maintain our focus. Perhaps one of the more interesting parts of Hari's exploration is his deconstruction of the "attention economy." 
This term was coined way back in the early seventies by distinguished political scientist and Nobel Laureate Herbert A. Simon, who posited that "in an information-rich world, the wealth of information means a dearth of something else: a scarcity of whatever it is that information consumes."2 He further clarifies that, "what information consumes is rather obvious: it consumes the attention of its recipients." And finally notes that "a wealth of information creates a poverty of attention and a need to allocate that attention efficiently among the overabundance of information sources that might consume it." 
In Stolen Focus, Hari describes the devious methods--ones that Silicon Valley tech giants embraced and employed so eagerly in their respective pieces of software--that are built into the devices and applications we use (especially social media) to occupy as much of our attention as possible. Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, YouTube--these are some of the primary culprits in this scheme, one that is universally acknowledged yet insufficiently addressed. Stolen Focus is a fascinating read that is worth both your time and attention, as it shines a bright light on these issues, outlines their rise to prominence, and critically examines how they are affecting our minds.
So, as several brilliant minds are solely dedicated to creating media that capture as much of our mental space as possible, our ability to concentrate is eroding fast. The longer and more intensely we engage with said media, the hastier our lives seem to be. Add the Sisyphean tasks that characterize a sizable portion of our being to the mix and you have a wonderful cocktail of severe existential trepidation. Thankfully, there are several methods that Hari recommends to his readers to help them fight against the perils of the modern world. The most fascinating amongst them is the idea of "Flow."

"Be Water, My Friend"

If you have been fortunate enough to be utterly engrossed in an activity, so much so that any perception of time seemed to have melted away, you have successfully experienced a state of Flow. This mental and physical state is a concept observed, researched, and popularized  by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in his groundbreaking book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. According to Csikszentmihalyi, Flow is the state in which people are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience itself is so enjoyable that people will do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it. What seems to be universally true (or at the very least anecdotally true for everyone) is that entering and maintaining this state of complete absorption and focus is something that children can experience quite effortlessly and at a great frequency.
Circumstances and places that seem bland or customary to adults are effortlessly transformed in a child's mind. An empty lot turns into Camp Nou, a densely forested patch of land transforms into a battlefield, a sandcastle on the beach becomes a thriving community teeming with life--anything is possible through the eyes of a child. We all, invariably, tend to have memories of such experiences from our youth. The understated norm of these experiences is that they are all characterized by a state of Flow, this force of supreme immersion in the activity at hand. I now invite you to think about the life you are leading currently. Assuming you are an adult, you may come to the disappointing realization that you are severely limited--or even completely handicapped--in your capacity for attaining this Flow state. It may seem to you that your mind is endlessly preoccupied by the spate of bills you have to pay each month, the amount of maintenance you have to perform both for your physical body as well as every single appliance you own, and keeping up with the Joneses. Suddenly, you may come to realize that Flow is a concept of the past, a remnant of a more carefree, less anxious existence. As depressing as this realization is, however, it simply isn't true. 
In 2003, Csikszentmihalyi & Hunter noted that flow states are volatile and subject to contextual changes, thus indicating that psychologists cannot assume that flow experiences stay the same across adulthood3. However, a study published in 2022 on Flow Experiences Across Adulthood, gave credence to the continuity hypothesis of flow experiences, indicating that such states appear to be generally stable across adulthood. Age seemed to have a minimal to small positive relationship with the prevalence, activity context, and frequency of flow experiences4. Other aspects of this same research (as well as previous papers that have been published on the subject), provide more context on the exact situations and circumstances that can trigger a flow state in adults across different age groups, thereby showcasing that adults are indeed capable of experiencing flow, just not in the same way that they did when they were younger. As it turns out, we are all still capable of facilitating these periods of intense concentration on and dedication to a singular task, even as adults. And when such a state is reached, life is not as hasty as it once appeared to be.
By focusing on activities that allow you to enter a Flow state, you may find that time seems to pass more quickly. Conversely, when you are not engaged in activities that bring you Flow, time can seem to drag on endlessly. By creating more opportunities to engage in Flow activities, you can effectively create a form of time dilation that makes your days feel more fulfilling and your efforts more impactful. 
Theoretically, though, as the amount of time you spend engaging in a specific activity increases, so does your competency in said activity. It follows, then, that you would become increasingly comfortable when engaging in that activity; it isn't as elusive and/or difficult as it once was. If you are the kind of person whose immersion in a subject/activity is affected by its difficulty, then you might end up experiencing fewer Flow sessions. How can you, then, sustain this level of concentration and commitment more consistently? 

The Beginner's Mind

In my early teens I developed an intense curiosity for religious studies, specifically for Eastern religions. It was after reading Kazantzakis's semi-autobiographical work Report to Greco and seeing the impact that the teachings of Buddha had on the author that I began my own exploration of Buddhist philosophy. I did not embark on this examination for spirituality or pretension, mind you; I kept encountering nuggets of Buddhist ideology in popular culture, yet had no reference for them, so I felt inclined to investigate more closely. It was when studying Zen Buddhism that I came across the teachings of Shunryu Suzuki, a Japanese priest of the Soto lineage, who become the so-called founding father of Zen in America (yes, before you judge, my studies of Buddhism had a Western point of view to them). Suzuki's Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind is often recommended as the best first book for Westerners to read on Zen. While the text has special significance for Zen meditation practitioners and enthusiasts alike, its biggest impact on me revolved around the concept of the beginner's mind.
"In Japan we have the phrase shoshin," Suzuki writes, "which means "beginner's mind."5 The goal of the practice is always to keep our beginner's mind." Suzuki highlights that continuous practice--in Zen and, in my opinion, life in general--makes one "liable to lose the limitless meaning of original mind." He sees our "original mind" as open, self-sufficient, and ready for anything. He further suggests that the more demanding one's mind becomes, the more prone one becomes to err, to violate one's own principles, even on a moral level. "In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities;" Suzuki posits, "in the expert's mind there are a few."
When thinking about this last quote in the context of Flow states, a mental light bulb lit up for me. By maintaining a beginner's mind, we can preserve our enthusiasm and curiosity. Mastering a discipline can make us arrogant, thinking we have attained the highest form of wisdom possible. Arrogance makes our minds impliable, our imaginations inert, thus causing us to enter a torpid state. To lead lives of profound experience we must approach each activity without the ego of the proficient, nor the irresolution of the dilettante, but the innocence of the amateur. 

TL;DR:

With the passing of each day, our world, at least to me, seems to be getting exponentially complicated. The faster we go, the better optimized our outputs are, the smarter our devices get, the duller our experiences seem to become. To rekindle the fire that jolts our minds awake with excitement in the morning and keeps our bodies going until we lay in bed at night tired but satisfied, we must find the things that we can immerse ourselves in with total dedication and without guilt. When we find those things, we must preserve them with all our might, always maintaining a beginner's mind. This, my friends, is the second pillar of the pursuit of a fulfilling life: Flow

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My Time is Running Out

I have an intense fear of time running out. Specifically, my time running out. It isn't my inevitable death that I find intimidating; instead, I am afraid of a potential implication of my death: having never lived in the first place. The unfulfilled life, a life characterized by unrealized potential and remorse, is, to me, a fate worse than death. I spent countless hours worrying about this outcome and an equal amount of time trying to find the next big thing to fill that void—the thing that will help me come closer to the fully realized version of myself. However, the more I agonized over my life’s possibly fruitless conclusion, the more I realized that I was utterly trapped. To find a cure for this peculiar ailment of the mind, I had to do some serious digging.

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"Sooner or later, almost all prisoners suffer chronophobia to some degree and become terrified by the duration and immensity of time. This is often called going 'stir crazy.'"

Doing time?

Chronophobia is defined as the extreme fear of time or, more accurately, of time passing. According to the Cleveland Clinic, this condition can cause "severe anxiety, feelings of dread, obsessive behaviors, and depression."1 Interestingly enough, Chronophobia--classified as a specific phobia and thus a form of anxiety disorder--is also referred to as "prison neurosis," for it is commonly seen in prison inmates having trouble adjusting to an exceptionally long sentence.2 In fact, “sooner or later, almost all prisoners suffer chronophobia to some degree and become terrified by the duration and immensity of time. This is often called going ‘stir crazy.’”

So what does that say about me and the way my brain works?  Why would an otherwise healthy—and not incarcerated—25-year-old dude be going “stir crazy?” The answer is certainly not as straightforward or uni-dimensional as it may initially seem.

This week's posts will explore why and how chronophobia slowly creeps up on me now and then. In addition to this analysis, it is equally important to investigate how to combat that restless fear of the unfulfilled life and its deleterious effects. 

This is a subject that I have been researching extensively over the past ten years (starting when I was 15), and while not all aspects of my search were fruitful, I still managed to distill the elements of the pursuit of a fulfilling life into five pillars. This first post serves as an exploration of the first such pillar: Expectation.

Enter the Stoa

I was introduced to Stoicism through a Casey Neistat vlog in May 2015 (see, I wasn't lying about the length of my research). In it, Casey quotes Ryan Holiday quoting the Stoic philosopher Seneca, positing that "it is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it." I can still recall how profoundly that quote rocked me. I stormed to the nearest bookstore, searching for Seneca's essay "On The Shortness of Life." Three bookstores and a lot of sweat later (it was pretty hot in Greece at the time, and I was quite out of shape), I finally got my hands on this most treasured philosophical piece. What I read in the next couple of hours kept me up all night back then and has stuck with me since. In one of my favorite excerpts from the essay, Seneca says: 

But putting things off is the biggest waste of life: it snatches away each day as it comes, and denies us the present by promising the future. The greatest obstacle to living is expectancy, which hangs upon tomorrow and loses today.

- Seneca

Expectation Is Our Jail

Expectation is the ball and chain of the mind. It clouds our vision of the present with mirages of the future. These predictions, no matter how accurate they may be retrospectively, are essentially mere conjectures about what will/ought to occur hereafter. Making such estimates is not an inherently problematic process that must be avoided at all costs. After all, one could argue that estimations about the future are a survival mechanism deeply ingrained in us, helping us assess how dangerous a situation may be. The issue, however, is when the anticipation of a specific future outcome inhibits our enjoyment of the present. So how do we free ourselves from these invisible shackles weighing us down?

Mick Jagger Got It Right

“You can’t always get what you want,” said warrior poet Mick Jagger. “But sometimes,” he adds, “you get what you need.” Starting with the thoughts of a Roman Stoic philosopher and ending with the astute observation of arguably one of the most influential frontmen in the history of Rock & Roll, I came to the conclusion that to free ourselves from the mental prison whose bars spell out “expectation” we must accept the world and ourselves as is. That does not mean not striving to do more and be better; it does not mean giving up, nor does it excuse not trying in the first place. Acceptance means making our peace with the inherent unpredictability of our lives, our potential failures, the scars we have amassed over the years, and still moving forward. As long as we are able to “[…] fill the unforgiving minute / With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run” (Kipling, lines 29-30), our lives cannot help but become more meaningful.

TL;DR:

Chronophobia—the fear of time passing—can be a debilitating form of anxiety manifesting through the yearning for a well-lived life. A primary contributor to this ailment is expectation, which can stem from our need to control the outcomes that befall us. To help combat chronophobia and start living—instead of merely existing—put your expectations on the passenger seat and grab the wheel of the present with both hands, focusing solely on the driving.

Note from the author

Thank you for taking the time to read through the very first post on Damn Good Thinking! I am slowly but surely figuring out how to craft these entries to the best of my ability, which is a process I have found to be absolutely enthralling! Join me again tomorrow, when I will discuss the second pillar of a fulfilling life.
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