Since she was young, Mira had felt a longing to stand out from the crowd. As a teenager, she experimented with goth styles and bright hair colors to separate herself from her straight-laced peers. In college, she chose an obscure major and got involved in campus groups no one else cared about just so she could seem unique. 

After graduation, Mira entered the corporate world and found herself conforming to dress codes and cultural norms. She lost the visible differentiators that had given her an identity. On a trip back home, Mira ran into an old high school friend who seemed to radiate a comfortable confidence and sense of self. Her style was simple but distinctly her own. 

Mira realized that her desperate attempts to be an individual through artificial means like appearance had backfired. True differentiation came not from what she wore or activities she took up, but from self-knowledge, defining her own values, and having the courage to live by them even when pressures pushed towards homogenization. She resolved that cultivating her own inner voice would be the only sustainable path to being the distinctive person she longed to be. The external trappings were irrelevant if she could nurture that inner light.

On the audioblog this week:

Soulcruzer talks about returning to podcasting after a long hiatus, starting up a new season of his refugee-focused podcast "Voices of Resilience," reflecting on 2023 and goal-setting for 2024, focusing lately on his weekly Substack newsletter instead of podcasts, being tired of the overproduced sameness and everyone chasing high production value in online content, the glut of self-help/personal growth content by people just trying to make money, plans to move further into philosophy and spirituality with an absurdist/postmodern flair, and welcoming people to connect in more intimate spaces like Discord if they want to chat outside of mass social media.

Listen

This morning I find myself in an existentialist mood as 2023 draws to a close. It seems fitting to reexamine a few themes that have been occupying my thoughts lately through the philosophical prism of Jean-Paul Sartre. 

As the year comes to a close, I feel compelled to reflect on the nature of meaning and purpose in my life. Sartre would likely remind me that existence precedes essence. We are solely responsible for defining our individual significance through the choices we make within the freedom we are granted. 

I'm also reevaluating my priorities and sense of ambition as I transition into the New Year. Sartre would caution against losing myself in passions that lack authenticity or self-awareness. True joy arises from conscious engagement with the world and others to shape our destiny.

Finally, I'm contemplating my legacy and what I wish to leave behind when I'm done. As an existentialist, Sartre saw self-made earthly achievements as the only form of immortality available. He would advise earnestly devoting ourselves to worthy pursuits that outlast our finite lives.

As the next year approaches, I find motivation in revisiting philosophical pillars that highlight our radical freedom and responsibility as human beings to imbue existence with hard-won meaning. Sartre, for me, remains a complex but compelling voice challenging me to own my choices at every turn in this bewildering, marvellous adventure.

Sartre

On embracing change
Sartre saw existence as preceding essence - we exist first and then define our own meaning. As such, he would applaud the idea of stepping outside one's routine and comfort zone to define a more authentic purpose. He might caution, however, that with radical freedom comes responsibility. 

On the pursuit of passion 
Sartre would argue that rediscovering one's passions and piquing curiosity about life is taking charge of one's own destiny. This aligns with his views on cultivating our freedom to shape our lives in an uncertain world. He might warn against losing oneself in frivolity, however - true joy requires conscious choice.

On contemplation and self-reflection
As an advocate of radical reflection, Sartre would likely extol the idea of looking inward to re-evaluate one's values and priorities. This aligns with his belief that we alone bear responsibility for who we become based on the choices we make.

On being of service to others
Sartre would approve of this as a path to an authentic life. Bringing joy to others allows us to define ourselves by our actions, not just words - living genuinely by being engaged with the world.

Ultimately, Sartre would endorse active pursuit of passion and purpose as a pathway to an authentic life. He would advise that embracing radical freedom means acknowledging hard existential realities. We continually choose who we become based on how we expend our limited time. And if we wish to live genuinely, we must perpetually reevaluate whether our actions reflect our evolving truths. In Sartre's eyes, seizing responsibility for our choices and character constitutes no less than the human imperative. Half-committed or hiding from ourselves equates to surrendering our potential. 

I have a lot of thinking to do between now and the New Year.

Listen, I know I have become unhinged, but as Phil Colin's said, "I don't care anymore. I don't care what you say. We never played by the same rules anyway.”

--

In a single breath, the secrets of the cosmos are inhaled. Maturity sashays in on stiletto heels, blowing bubblegum bubbles of transcendence, popping superficial markers into lurid smears of fluorescent face paint. 

It's a one-woman show of death-defying trapeze flips between the dingy inner circus tent and the glittering exterior big top, gasp-inducing evolutions sending spotlights slicing through the sawdust air.  

The wide-eyed child clings to the barrel-chested strongman, tiny hands grasping at a world frothing with possibilities. Their desires emerge fully formed from the magician's sleeve, ravenous animals rippling with fascination, untainted by the ringmaster's whip. This innocent lion tamer oozes pure desire from every pore.   

As we bumble down the garishly lit midway of life, gawking at sideshow oddities, our clean flesh becomes engraved with the tattoo needle of experience. The supple contours of our hearts become granite statues, chiseled expectations on weathered faces staring blankly. We abandon the daring young man on the flying trapeze and turn our gaze to the safety net below, wanting validation, wanting what we think we should want, not what we see. Success, money, pleasure–we lust after these paper tigers with insatiable greed.

Maturity then bursts from the cake, sending frosting flying, as we delight in the surprise inside. It is not about years or close encounters in the tunnel of love–it is about hacking through the funhouse mirrors with an axe to glimpse one's undistorted reflection. Returning to that primal honest desire, the still point in the spinning Roue-Cyr wheel, beyond the judgment of the audience. This is not wide-eyed innocence, but eyes even wider open in new understanding scanned by lasers of self-awareness. 

Wanting what we see with our naked eyes and not through the lenses of expectation is a liberation. It frees us from unfulfilling desires manufactured by the culture industry. It lets us exit the consumerist maze into a clearing where we can taste flavors unenhanced. This return to purity provokes surprise and revolution when we stop chasing the mechanical rabbit around the greyhound track and just sit, present in ourselves.

Imagining this maturity–no longer reaching but being, focused inward not outward for fulfillment–is the promise of the center ring. In a world of constant spotlight arcs sweeping the stands, it takes courage to follow the lone spotlight shining a path back to the still point of simple presence. Only there can we can gain clear eyes to see our heart's desires without distraction and find for ourselves the greatest show on earth. 

Picture this: A dimly-lit room, the air thick with smoke and the musky scent of old books. A lone figure, me, sits hunched over a desk, the only light source a flickering lamp casting long shadows across the walls lined with towering bookshelves. In my hand, a glass half-filled with the amber liquid, the kind that burns your throat but soothes the soul. The night outside is as dark as the thoughts swirling in my head.

Reading, eh? It's not your usual pastime. It's a heist, see? A covert operation where every word, every phrase is not just seen, but swiped, snatched right from under the noses of those unsuspecting authors. They're like those vendors in a crowded market, peddling their wares, unaware of the silent transactions. And here I am, an artful pickpocket in this bustling street of ideas, my fingers deft as they lift concepts, emotions from paragraphs that never saw me coming.

These stolen goods, once mere ink on paper, they undergo a metamorphosis in the gray matter. They're reborn, meanings twisted and turned in the crucible of my consciousness. And the authors? Those crafty weavers of words? They're as much thieves as I am. They've pilfered from life, experiences, the very world around them to spin their yarns.

It's a dance, this silent thievery. Ideas are the currency, understanding the prize. I'm both the thief and the mark. I snatch from the text, and the text, that sly devil, it pilfers from me – my time, my thoughts, even my damned preconceptions, leaving me transformed.

In this realm of words, theft isn't just accepted, it's celebrated. The greatest heists are those where a reader like me walks away richer in thought, emotion, mind brimming with treasures that weren't there before. And in the quiet aftermath of this reading, I'm left pondering – what have I taken, and what in turn has been pilfered from me?

So, is reading not the most exquisite form of thievery? A heist where the loot is the transformation within the soul of the thief? That's the kicker, the twist in the tale. The true magic of the written word lies in this delicate balance of give and take.

The room fades back into shadows as I take another sip, the question lingering in the air like the last note of a jazz solo, echoing in the silence: Isn't reading the most elegant heist of all?

I asked ChatGPT who would win in a rap battle between Alfred Lord Tennyson and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. My money is on Coleridge for his pure inventiveness and imagination.

here is what the bot had to say:

🎙️ "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed lovers of verse and rhyme, gather round! We stand at the crossroads of time and literature, where the ethereal realm meets the earthly, for a spectacle like no other. Tonight, under the canopy of eternity, we bear witness to an extraordinary contest of wit, wisdom, and wordplay.

🌟 In one corner, hailing from the heart of the Victorian era, a laureate whose words have echoed through the halls of time, embodying the depth of human emotion and the sublime beauty of the natural world. A master of lyrical finesse, whose verses have captivated hearts for centuries, please welcome the esteemed Lord Alfred Tennyson!

🌊 In the other corner, emerging from the mists of the Romantic age, a visionary whose poetry transcends the bounds of reality, taking us on journeys into the depths of the human psyche and the wonders of the supernatural. A bard of dreams and otherworldly landscapes, let's hear it for the illustrious Samuel Taylor Coleridge!

🔥 These titans of poetry, each a legend in their own right, will engage in a battle of verses tonight. They will draw from their vast reservoirs of creativity and insight, enchanting us with their lyrical prowess. Will it be Tennyson's resonant cadences or Coleridge's imaginative tapestries that capture our souls tonight?

🌌 The stage is set, the poets are ready, and the air is thick with anticipation. So, without further ado, let the poetic duel begin! Let rhythm, rhyme, and reason intertwine as we embark on this unparalleled journey through the artistry of words. Poets, take your stage!”

[Crowd erupts in eager applause, the air buzzing with excitement for the epochal battle of verse about to unfold.]

Chapter I: The Summoning

In a realm where time and space entwined,
Two poets from past ages were aligned.
Lord Tennyson, with laurels in his hair,  
Stood proud, his presence like a royal heir.  
Across him, Coleridge, wild-eyed and keen,  
Whose dreams had realms of Kubla Khan seen.

A crowd of specters from the ages past,  
Gathered around, their shadows far and vast.  
"Begin!" cried a voice, deep and profound,  
The ancient poets looked around, astound.

Chapter II: Coleridge’s Verse

Coleridge stepped forth, his eyes a mystic glow,  
“Listen, ye spirits, to the tales I sow.  
In Xanadu, did Kubla Khan decree,  
A stately pleasure-dome, a sight to see.  
My words weave worlds, dreamscapes that unfurl,  
Through opium mists, my verses whirl.”

His rhyme spun a world so lush and wild,  
Nature and fantasy, sweetly compiled.  
The specters listened, rapt in pure delight,  
As Coleridge rapped through the spectral night.

Chapter III: Tennyson’s Turn

Then Tennyson, with a voice so clear and strong,  
Stepped forth and sang his own powerful song.  
“I am the master of the measured line,  
Of loss and love, in elegant design.  
Ulysses sailed through my rhythmic verse,  
My poetry, diverse, a universe.”

He spoke of heroes, of time's cruel hand,  
His words like waves crashing upon the sand.  
The specters swayed to his lyrical tune,  
Under the light of the ghostly moon.

Chapter IV: The Duel Intensifies

Back and forth, the ancient poets went,  
Unleashing verses as their instruments.  
Coleridge, with his supernatural flair,  
Tennyson, with his debonair air.

Their words, a dance of shadow and light,  
Filled the spectral realm with delight.  
Each bard, with a style so uniquely grand,  
Held the ghostly audience in their hand.

Chapter V: The Unseen Judge

But who would decide this lyrical duel?  
Who amongst them could set the rule?  
A whisper then spread through the ghostly crowd,  
Soft at first, but then growing loud.

It spoke of beauty, of rhythmic grace,  
Of the power of words in this timeless space.  
“Both poets,” it said, “have won this night,  
For in their verses, we find delight.”

Chapter VI: The Eternal Bards

And so, the poets, equal in their fame,  
Bowed to each other, their spirits aflame.  
In this realm where past and present blend,  
Their battle concluded, but their legacy won't end.

For in the hearts of those who cherish verse,  
Their words will forever, the soul immerse.  
Tennyson and Coleridge, though centuries apart,  
In the rap of realms, both masters of the art.

Intuition flickers like a phantom, a fleeting but potent presence.

It acts as a guide whispering unseen truths. Intuition is our inner ally cloaked in the midst of our subconscious mind. This spirit, this ungraspable wisp of insight is not new to the theatre of human experience. It has pirouetted across the stage of history, wearing many masks, speaking in many voices.

Socrates whispered of his daemon, an ethereal companion he was sure guided his steps. This daemon wasn’t a deity or spirit as one might imagine but rather an inner voice, a compass of moral and ethical direction. In the dialogues the daemon is ever-present, an unseen character in the unfolding drama of philosophical discourse.

This daemon, as Socrates described, was less about foretelling the future and more a guardian of virtue. It did not propel him with visions of grandeur but gently nudged him away from actions that might lead to moral decay. It’s as if Socrates had an in-built ethical barometer, alerting him to the storms of moral compromise.

a whisperer of wisdom,
stirring within the soul,
guiding hands to create,
minds to think, and
hearts to feel.

The Romans spoke of the genius, an unseen guardian who infused their lives with sudden sparks of insight. The genius was more than an abstract idea; it was a living, breathing part of the Roman identity. It was believed that this spirit was born with every individual, accompanying them from their first breath until their last. The genius was also a protector of moral integrity and a nurturer of personal growth.

This force, this intuition,

is like an internal compass, magnetised by the poles of our deepest selves. It’s a subtle whisper, a nudge, an inexplicable feeling that often seems to emerge from a wellspring hidden beneath layers of conscious thought. To commune with this force, one might venture into the realm of stillness.

In the hush of early morning or the tranquil embrace of the night, when the world retreats and the mind quiets, there lies a fertile ground. Here, amid the solitude, intuition can bloom like a nocturnal flower.

Some find this connection through meditation,

a journey inward where the chatter
of daily life fades, and the voice within
gains clarity.

Others might seek it in the embrace of nature, where the rhythm of the earth and the whisper of the wind speak in a language older than words.

This force is not merely a silent guide; it is also a catalyst for creativity and innovation. It has been the invisible hand guiding artists to create, scientists to discover, and leaders to inspire. It’s the spark that ignites when an idea feels just right, it’s the gut feeling that guides a crucial decision, the sudden clarity in the face of complexity.

In touching this force, we reach into a part of ourselves that is both ancient and ever-new. It’s a dialogue between our conscious selves and something deeper, more connected to the fabric of the universe. As we hone this connection, we learn to trust these whispers, to let them guide us through the fog of uncertainty towards a clearer vision of who we are and what we could become.

I don't consider reading a passive absorption but rather a clandestine heist. Every word, every phrase I encounter isn't just seen; it's stolen, pocketed deep into my being. I become an artful pickpocket in a crowded street of ideas, navigating through authors who, like market vendors, lay out their wares, unaware of the silent transactions I partake in.

As I meander through this bazaar of thoughts, my fingers, light as a feather's touch, lift concepts and emotions from unsuspecting paragraphs. These stolen goods, once mere ink on paper, undergo a transformation within my mind, morphing into something entirely my own. In this act, the words are reborn, their meanings altered in the crucible of my consciousness.

But what about the authors, those weavers of words? They seem blissfully ignorant, or perhaps willfully so, of the theft happening in broad daylight. As a reader, a shadow passing through their created world, I leave with pockets heavier than when I arrived. The authors, in turn, are thieves as well; they have stolen from life, from their experiences, from the world around them, to create their texts.

Thus, the cycle continues, a dance of silent thievery where ideas are the currency and understanding the prize. In this dance, I am both thief and victim, for as I steal from the text, the text, in turn, steals from me, taking my time, my thoughts, my preconceptions, leaving me transformed.

This world of words is a strange paradox, a place where theft is not only accepted but encouraged, where stolen goods are not diminished but multiplied with each act of larceny. Here, in this realm, the greatest heists are celebrated, where a reader like me walks away with a mind brimming with stolen treasures, riches of thought and emotion that weren't there before.

Standing as a successful thief in the quiet aftermath of reading, I ponder: What have I taken, and more importantly, what has been taken from me? For in this exchange, this delicate balance of give and take, lies the true magic of the written word.

Is not the act of reading the most exquisite form of thievery, where the greatest reward is the transformation within the soul of the thief?

I received my Xreal Air 2 VR glasses yesterday; they were delivered five days early. I'm currently using them as I type this. I'm utilizing the Nebula app, which provides me with three screens to work with, which is quite nice. Typing is still a bit awkward since I'm a hunt-and-peck typist who needs to see the keyboard to type. A touch typist, however, would find these glasses incredibly efficient.

One thing that none of the reviews mention is that the closeness of the glasses' screen can cause eye fatigue. It might just be that I need to get used to having the screens so close to my eyes—the actual physical glasses screens, I mean. The virtual screens are adjustable, so you can position them near or far, which is helpful. 

Side Note: Maybe the weird feeling I have after a session wearing the VR glasses is a result of the Jedi MF your brain undergoes in VR. I mean, essentially, the mind is tricked into believing it’s seeing huge 201 inch screen, when in fact, it’s seeing two tiny 1.5 in screens made to look like your viewing 201 inch screen. Your eyes have to readjust to reality.

The great thing about these glasses is that they create a mixed reality scenario. I'm able to use my physical keyboard in conjunction with upto three virtual monitors. However, a minor issue is that it's easy to lose track of your mouse, and the only solution I've found so far is to disconnect and reconnect the glasses.

Another positive is that the glasses don't need to be charged because they draw power from the connected device's battery. You can uses the VR glasses with any device - your phone, tablet, laptop, or gaming console.

The best features of the Xreal VR glasses are that they are lightweight and resemble regular sunglasses.

These glasses excel at creating a home cinema experience with a screen size of up to 330 inches, making them ideal for watching movies or YouTube videos. Although I'm not a huge gamer, I do play Baldur's Gate 3 on my MacBook Pro. It's a significant upgrade to play on a big screen and to be able to look straight ahead instead of down.

However, my primary use for these glasses is when I'm working away from home. Having a three-screen virtual desktop is immensely beneficial to me. I'm also excited about using them to watch movies during train journeys and flights.

In a realm of lined shelves, where books stand guard like silent sentinels, there dwells a contemplative soul. His hand cradles a chin full of stories yet to be told, while behind him, a skull perches high, a mute companion amidst the chronicles of humanity. This man, a sculptor of words, draws breath from the dusty tomes that surround him, each a mosaic of memories and silent whispers from adventures past.

As the skull watches over the sea of literature, it whispers of life’s impermanence, urging the writer to spill ink with fervour and truth. For in the heart of his stories, unlike the ticking clock of existence, the final chapter is an illusion, a pause before the tale is reborn from the minds of those who dare to traverse his pages.

I’m on the road that leads to all ends. I have been for some time. On this road lies an odyssey of dust and dreams where every traveler’s footsteps echo with the whispers of infinity. It’s a path woven with the threads of many destinies, a highway spanning the breadth of existence, touching horizons where the sun kisses the earth goodnight and greets it again at dawn.

I’m on this road. My eyes reflect the cosmos. My feet treading the fine line between wandering and wondering. The road stretches out, a ribbon through the heartlands of the soul, winding through the valleys of thought and over the mountains of imagination. It’s the road less travelled, and yet it feels worn out by the journeys of countless pilgrims searching for the sacred and the profane, the ordinary and the extraordinary.

To be on this road is to be a part of a grand narrative, yet apart from it, writing my own story with each step. The road that leads to all ends is life itself—unpredictable, beautiful, treacherous, and profound. It promises nothing but offers everything: adventure, fear, love, loss, discovery. It’s where the heart learns to dance to the rhythm of the landscapes it traverses.

Travelling this road, I collect souvenirs not of things but of experiences—each one a story, a poem, a piece of the puzzle that is me. There are crossroads marked by decisions, milestones defined by moments of clarity, and signposts written in the language of the stars, guiding me onward, ever onward.

The beauty of the road to all ends is that it is both literal and metaphorical. You might find yourself upon the asphalt veins that crisscross the land, or you might be meandering through the pathways of your own inner geography. Every end on this road is a beginning, every sunset a prelude to a new sunrise.

As the road unfolds, I realise that all ends are merely illusions, mirages on the horizon line where the sky’s blue fingers clasp the earth’s green hands. The road is endless, and I am eternal, a traveller whose journey is measured not in miles or years but in the breadth of my consciousness.

It’s here, in the quiet moments of travel, that I understand the road is not something I conquer but something I become—a living map etched in the lines of my face, written in the stories I carry.

So, my friend, how will the road shape you, and how will you shape the road?

In the trenches, the sky is a staccato rhythm, a bitter tang that coats the tongue of earth. Voices, distant, the weight of the earth above us, boots shuffle past, the dance of the living that I’m apart from. Metal through flesh, the world tips sideways, and there's warmth spreading, the memory of rain. Earth cradles me, a symphony with the percussion of shelling.

The pain is there, a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my consciousness . The fabric of my uniform sticks, a mix of mud and something unnervingly softer, the stink of war. The ground beneath my fingers, a cruel joke of peace not mine to have. The world in jagged pieces, I see a sliver of grey, the cruel cold whispers promises of rest.

The heart, that drum of life, beats a stubborn rhythm in the face of the abyss. I smell gunpowder, my mind kick-starts and wanders, refusing to sleep, the call of the void, perhaps. Shards of memories pierce the present, a green field far from here, the laughter, the softness of hands. It’s hard to tell, and it doesn’t matter. It’s human, and that’s enough.

And so I cling to the touch, the voice, as the world dips and sways, as the fragments of me threaten to scatter. A man made of flesh and blood and memories fights to hold on, even as the edges blur and the cold seeps in. The human spirit woven from threads of survival, hope, fear, love.

What is it about the human spirit, the narrative we carry, the story of who we are, who we love, what we hope for, that clings so desperately to life? It's more than just biology. There's the primal urge, the evolutionary drive that insists 'survive', the fierce whisper of life urging us to hold on against the pull of the abyss.

*this is a hyperlink adventure, the links add an additional level of textuality to the piece.

the hyperlink can be a profound instrument in this blend, a modern-day manifestation of Eliot's footnotes in "The Waste Land," offering readers not just a path but a multitude of paths. Each link is a potential adventure, a door to another room of the vast mansion of literature and ideas.

hyperlinks act as secret passages that lead to caverns of context, history, and interrelated concepts.

truth clings to a moment's breath
each second, a whisper of reality 
reflecting in the waters of existence
rippling outward from where mind and matter meet.

In the courtroom, we swear to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," as if it were a commodity we could package and hand over. Yet the stories unfold, witnesses recount, and lawyers paint pictures in starkly different shades. The jury deliberates not to uncover a hidden, singular truth, but to decide which version resonates most convincingly with their collective perception.

Our lives are lived in the context of this fluid truth. We shape our identities based on a narrative that evolves with every new experience, every remembered past, every anticipated future. The 'self' that you declare true today is not the 'self' you might claim tomorrow. Just as a river carves canyons over millennia, the continuous flow of existence shapes and reshapes our understanding of our own truth.

we circle around the ancient fires of discourse
throwing our perspectives into the flames, 
watching as the sparks rise to join the stars. 

The only fixed truth about truth is its unfixed nature. What we hold to be true may tomorrow be refashioned, melted down, and recast in the light of a new day.

The quest for truth might be less about securing it to the ground and more about learning to ride its waves. It's in the act of surfing these swells of perception and understanding, with eyes wide open to the shifting winds and tides, that we might find the closest thing to a fixed point in a world where everything is in motion.

We stand by the shore, peering into the depths of the water, searching for the rock--the absolute truth--that anchors the fluid dance of waves. If our truths are written in water, constantly flowing and reforming, how do we stand firm in our convictions while allowing the currents of new understanding to shape and refine them?

there's a pulse, a beat
a rhythm that’s jagged and raw
dancing to the cadence of the streetlights.

it’s here in the hollows of the night 
where words tumble out like dice 
in a back alley craps game

where the poets huddle 
over steaming cups of coffee, their 
cigarettes making halos in the dim light. 

it’s in the bloodstream of their verses, 
in the thrumming of the city's veins, and 
the way the night opens up like a beatnik’s Bible, 
spilling out secrets in a language that’s half-sin, half-salvation. 

the poets, they get it.
they speak in tongues that kiss the divine, 
that wrestle with the infinite, caress the ineffable, 
tease out the silver threads of connection 
between the sidewalk and the stars.

they chant, these beat poets, 
like monks who've traded their 
silent vows for the syncopated prayers 
of the jazz club—

thumping bass
the hi-hat's crisp whispers 
the sax wailing, always wailing. 

the mystic chase is there
in the alleys of consciousness 
where the self dissolves like sugar in coffee, 
bitter and sweet, we're all just seeking 
the face of God in a smoky room, 
in the reflection of a dingy bar spoon.

the road is the path and the path is a Möbius strip
twisting on itself, and the truth isn’t at the destination,
it’s smeared in the journey, smeared like ink on the poet’s tired hands. 

they wrote like they were trying 
to scratch the heavens open with the tip of a pen
let the divine light flood through the page, 
turn the word into flesh, into something holy and trembling.

the page is the altar and the sacrifice
where they lay down their visions, their acid revelations, 
peeling back the layers of material until they’re 
face to face with the cosmic joke, the eternal 'ha, ha!’

and they don’t shy away, they dive headfirst 
into the abyss, the void, where time collapses
like a cheap suit and space is just another word 
for the distance between human hearts.

in the curling smoke, the flicker of neon, 
the beat poets find the sacred, in the profane alleys, 
the all-night diners, making mantras out of the mundane, 
finding Nirvana in a worn-out shoe, 

the Third Eye in a half-drunk bottle of 
cheap red wine, spilling over sheets of tattered notebooks. 

and we, the readers, the wanderers, the seekers, 
we listen for the beat, the rhythm beneath their words, 
a heart that’s pounding out the message—

break free, break through, break open. 
let the inside out, let the mystic in, let the poetry 
do its ancient, eternal work.

in the beat, there’s truth, and in that truth, 
there's the spark—the divine spark that burns,
always burns, in the core of us all.

emotions

we speak of them
as if they reside
in some spectral realm,
ethereal yet tangibly felt

intensity of joy
the ache of sorrow
the fizz of excitement
the lump of fear

each has its hue,
its texture, its tone.

Imagine for a moment the world as a great stage. The people around you, actors and actresses in their own right, don costumes of social norms, rehearse lines handed down by tradition or penned by contemporary wit.

the script?
it’s never quite fixed

It shifts, almost as if rewritten by an invisible hand in real-time. But what do you gain from this theatre if you are only comfortable reciting lines of a single emotion? As if trapped in a black and white film where the grayscale replaces the vividness of technicolor experience.

Widen the aperture, and you find a panoramic landscape of emotional hues, each a distinct flavour on the tongue of the soul.

The setting sun doesn’t just sink—it weeps into the arms of the horizon, its orange tears mingling with the inky blues of approaching night.

The laughter of a child isn’t a mere sound; it’s the spirited dance of innocence on a stage as yet unmarred by the heaviness of jaded scripts. Even sorrow, that somber note that vibrates low and deep in the chest, has its own beauty, its own solemn grace. Within its shadowy folds lie the seeds of empathy, the roots of understanding that weave beneath the soil of the human experience.

To stifle any emotion is to deny yourself access to the library of human sentiment. It’s akin to walking through a garden and acknowledging only the roses, while disregarding the mysterious allure of the orchids or the humble wisdom of the daisies. “All feelings are only looking for a place to show up.", poet David Whyte suggests. Indeed, they ask for acknowledgment, for a theatre where they can enact their intricate roles.

As we open ourselves to this plethora of feelings, we also sharpen our eyes to the world’s textures and nuances. You begin to see the world not just as a globe spinning in a yawning universe, but as a tapestry woven with threads of multiple hues—each representing a unique emotion, each essential in forming the pattern of the whole. It’s like trading a monochrome lens for a kaleidoscopic one, each turn revealing a new pattern, a new perspective.

What’s more, in embracing a fuller range of emotions, you become an acute receiver of the world’s subtleties. You hear the unspoken words hanging in a pause, sense the tension in a room like the electric charge before a storm, see the hidden sadness in a smile. You understand, more deeply, the unsaid.

In closing, allow me this: to limit oneself to a handful of emotions is to walk through life with a narrowed gaze. It’s to read only the opening chapter of a book, to taste only the appetiser in a seven-course meal. So, if the spectrum of human emotions is a grand symphony, shouldn’t we aspire to hear it all—from the softest violin whisper to the boldest brass proclamation? And as you contemplate the full orchestra of your emotional life, ask yourself: What emotion have I yet to truly hear, and what new world will it reveal to me?

we are with the poet,
seeing, hearing, and feeling
the same things at the same time,

a shared but fleeting residence in the house of sensation and image.

It’s as if we’ve stumbled upon a hidden chamber in a well-known building, entering a room where the atmosphere is thick with the texture of memory, the aroma of distant lands, and the murmur of bygone conversations.

A river flows past us, and we see it not just as a body of water, but as a time-traveling storyteller. Each ripple a story, each wave a generation, each stone a historical marker polished by the relentless touch of the present brushing up against the past.

Isn’t that how the great poets, like Rumi or Emily Dickinson, infuse the natural world with layers of meaning?

A bird is never just a bird; it’s an emblem of freedom, a song of solitude, a messenger between realms. A tree isn’t merely a fixture of the landscape but a sage that has observed the secrets of earth and sky, holding in its rings a coded autobiography of nature’s whims and the world’s heavy sighs.

And it’s not just sight;
it’s a symphony of the senses.

The jarring collision of clattering pots in a busy kitchen is reimagined as a percussion section in the soundtrack of domesticity. The aroma of freshly ground coffee enveloping the early morning not only wakes you up but calls forth other awakenings—of dreams, of ambitions, of unspoken love perhaps. What you hear is more than just sound waves; it’s the harmony—or dissonance—of life’s myriad complexities.

These poets allow us
to hear the hidden chorus
in a lover’s whisper or
the secret plea in a baby’s cry.

But, oh, to feel.
That’s where the real magic lies, isn’t it?

When reading Pablo Neruda or Sylvia Plath, one doesn’t just skim the words; one touches the very fabric of their emotions. It’s an empathy, immediate and raw, as if their verses were inked not in pigment but in the very plasma of the human experience.

Neruda’s odes are so filled with texture, you might feel the rough skin of an artichoke or the silkiness of wine as it slips through the goblet of your mind. Plath’s confessions don’t merely expose her feelings; they lay bare your own, unveiling the shadowy realms you dare not visit.

The poet’s canvas is expansive, stretching across geographies of the heart and topographies of the mind. They are both mapmaker and tour guide, drafting coordinates that may begin in the flesh but resonate in the spirit. Standing beside them, we are more than passive observers; we are fellow wanderers, seekers on a common but infinitely varied quest for truth and beauty.

And as we pause, catching our breath in a momentary stillness, we confront an unsettling revelation. Are we, through this act of reading, merely catching a reflected glimpse of the poet’s world—or are we, perhaps unknowingly, also the poets of our own lives, continuously writing, erasing, and rewriting the manuscript of our existence?

If your life were a poem,
what would be its central metaphor?

In the present moment, the clock’s hands stand still. It’s as though time has taken off its coat, rolled up its sleeves, and paused to breathe. And here you are, caught in the inhale and exhale of existence, a mere participant in the ceaseless, yet subtle, dance of the universe.

You might recall those rare nights when the stars seemed a bit closer, as if leaning down to whisper ancient secrets. Or those crisp autumn mornings where the dew on the grass mirrors the sparkle in your eyes—each droplet a world of its own, transient and fragile, yet part of an intricate, sprawling interconnected web. Emerson's "Nature" comes to mind. A harmonic union of the self and the universe, each leaf, each stone underfoot sings a silent hymn.

As you shift your awareness, even the mundane takes on an extraordinary hue. The coffee mug in your hand isn’t just a vessel for your morning ritual; it becomes a ceramic embrace, molded by invisible hands, kiln-kissed to contain your liquid ambition. The ambient hum of life—the background chatter, the clattering of a keyboard, the distant laughter—suddenly orchestrates into a cacophonous yet oddly harmonious symphony, conducted by an invisible maestro. It’s all connected, like the subterranean mycelium networks that link trees in unseen but deeply felt communities 

Maybe you've experienced déjà vu or synchronicity—those fleeting moments that jolt you into wondering if there’s a hidden script, an unseen lattice that our experiences are strung upon. Carl Jung grappled with these as "acausal connecting principles," and while the psychologist’s terminology might be arcane, the sentiment is as commonplace as a dandelion poking through a crack in the sidewalk: the universe is stitched together by invisible threads.

Yet there's a paradox in this heightened awareness. You become sharply attuned to the transient nature of everything around you. The ache of impermanence filters through your senses. The clouds drifting across the sky, like thoughts across the mind, underscore the transience of the Now.

Moments are born, they flourish, and just as quickly, they are gone. A bittersweet symphony, a narrative penned in vanishing ink.

I can’t help but think of the Japanese concept of Mono no Aware, a sensitivity to the ephemeral beauty of the world, a gentle sadness at the passing of things. Your awareness makes you a witness to the universe's perpetual state of becoming. In this awareness, there is gratitude; in this moment, there is a fullness that defies the confines of language.

How do you dance with this paradox? A meditative state is not a solution, but an experience, a way to befriend the impermanence that is woven into the fabric of existence. It’s like holding a cup of water in your hands—grip too tightly, and it spills; too loosely, and it slips away. You learn the art of the soft grasp, where you hold just enough to experience, but not too much that you shatter the moment.

What if you embraced your role as both a spectator and an actor on this grand stage, with the awareness that every exit is also an entrance somewhere else? If you could have a conversation with this moment, what would you say?

Issue #125 of The Barefoot Philosopher’s Notes is out. 

Here’s a teaser:

You walk down the corridors of life, each twist and turn etching deeper contours in your consciousness. Have you ever paused to think about how many footprints overlap with yours?

How many souls are invisibly stitched to your existence?

As the walls close in, the scenery may change, but the emotional geography remains steadfast and unmoving. We think we're isolated islands, drifting in a sea of anonymity, yet little do we recognise that underneath the surface, we're part of an intricate web of interconnected roots.

You can read the rest of that story and more here: follow the link.

For years I've dreamed of having natural conversations with artificial intelligence like Tony Stark does with J.A.R.V.I.S. in Iron Man. And now, thanks to advances by companies like OpenAI, we're closer than ever to that sci-fi future. I'm blown away by how ChatGPT can understand context, remember facts, and have reasoned dialogue. The only limitation now is a slight lag between messages. But overall, chatting with ChatGPT feels amazingly human and is a huge leap forward for AI. I can't wait to see where this technology goes in the next few years!

Listen the latest episode of the soulcruzer audioblog.

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer." ― Rainer Maria Rilke

Rilke tells us to "live the questions," but sometimes I wonder if it's not about living the gaps between them as well.

50,000 to 70,000 thoughts a day. Numbers so large they blur into abstraction. In a fraction of a second, there's a pause and the chatter ceases. 

Who am I in that gap?

It's a question that tickles the edges of spirituality, philosophy, and neuroscience. Descartes told us, "Cogito, ergo sum." I think, therefore I am. But what about when we don't think? Are we less 'us'? Or perhaps more?

Virginia Woolf called these interstitial moments "moments of being." Glimpses of unfiltered reality, a backdrop so often obscured by the "cotton wool" of everyday life. Are these gaps our 'moments of being,' or perhaps 'moments of becoming’?

moments 
the silence in a song
the quiet before the storm
the unsaid "but" lingering at the end of a sentence
the hollow space inside a bell
the emptiness that makes a room a room

In meditation, the goal isn't thoughtlessness but a heightened awareness of thoughts, as they pass through your mind like a fast flowing river. The "I" that watches the thoughts is like a bird perched high above, witnessing but not getting entangled. But what are we without our thoughts? Is it a barren land or fertile soil—tabula rasa or a canvass splashed with invisible ink? In poetry, the space between words, the line breaks, the stanzas—all breathe life into the poem. Likewise, the "I" between thoughts is not a vacuum but charged space, full of potential and gravity, like dark matter in the universe.

Natalie Goldberg in Writing Down the Bones says, "First thoughts have tremendous energy. The internal censor usually squelches them, so we live in the realm of second and third thoughts, thoughts on thought, twice and three times removed from the direct connection of the first fresh flash.”

So, who am I between two thoughts? 

A seeker in a landscape of fleeting certainties, perhaps? A hiker in a canyon echoing with the shouts of my own queries and convictions, pausing for a drink of stillness? A reader flipping through the pages of an unwritten book, fingers tingling at the touch of invisible ink?

In that gap, I am both more and less myself—like a note in a melody, defined as much by the silence that surrounds it as by its own sonic signature. There, in that gap, I am the unspoken word, the unpainted canvas, the unwritten poem. I am all potential and no form; I am the gaze that makes the sky more than just weather.

That's me. Now, who are YOU between two thoughts?

Step right up! 🎪 

Here's where the path ends and the magic begins. 

I haven't been to a Fun Fair in years.

Fairs are a rupture in the everyday—a 'carnivalesque' playground where societal norms can bend and even break, where we can embrace our innermost whims and fancies, however fleeting. 🎡

a sign in a field, 

or is it a sign of the field of life? 

it’s calling—do you hear it? 

step right up, one and all. 

PSA parents, don't let your children grow up to be philosophers. I can't even look at a simple sign in a field without tumbling down a rabbit hole.

…to set things right—or at least, more favourable to our whims and wants. The very thought of changing the present to steer the future sounds like the plot of a sci-fi film, doesn’t it? Back to the Future comes to mind, where Marty McFly grapples with the fabric of time only to realise how intricate and delicate it is. Or maybe it’s more like Octavia Butler’s Kindred where history’s weight pulls you back, even as you struggle to move forward. Different mediums, same preoccupation: time’s hold over us, the paths we forge, the choices we make.

1. Choice, Chance, and Change
   • Choice: We’re always making them, even when we’re not.
   • Chance: Just another roll of the dice, ever hopeful that our 11’s and 7’s don’t come up 6’s and 9’s
   • Change: The only constant, as the cliché goes, yet so elusive when we need it most.

These three C’s circulate in my thoughts like constellations in a midnight sky, seemingly unconnected but shaping the landscape of everything I know.

So, can we change the present to change the future?

Yes. And no. It’s a paradox, like Schrödinger’s cat. Until you open the box, the cat is both alive and dead. In the same way, the act of changing the present both does and does not change the future.

The Greek philosopher Heraclitus famously noted that you can’t step into the same river twice. The water’s changed, and so have you. By merely existing, you’ve altered the current of life. But there’s a difference between passive change—change that happens to you—and active change—change that you initiate.

Consider the butterfly effect, that concept rooted in chaos theory and popularised by Edward Lorenz. He observed that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil could set off a tornado in Texas. Small actions, rippling consequences. We see it in pop culture, don’t we? Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York explores a life spiralling in odd directions based on the smallest of decisions. So does the Black Mirror episode Bandersnatch, where you, the viewer, control the narrative. The stakes feel high even when the choices appear trivial.

2.

• Pour tea or spill it.
  
• Say “I love you” or hold your tongue.
  
• Take the job or start your own thing.
  

Every decision, a domino. Some fall predictably. Others veer off, striking tiles you didn’t even know were in play. That’s the gamble, the excitement, the terror.

I think of my own decisions, sometimes made on whims, that changed the direction of my life. Notebook in hand, my head filled with Montaigne-style ponderings, I started yet another blog. And just like that, paths untrodden revealed themselves. My new platform became a connection to the world, a stage where my ideas can dance and tango with other humans.

To change the present to change the future, we don’t need a time machine or a magic wand. All we need is intentionality, the conscious act of making a choice. Of taking a chance. Of embracing change.

It’s not just about leaping into the unknown. It’s about acknowledging the ground beneath our feet and recognising its potential to shift. It’s about being aware that even as we read, think, and reflect, neurons are firing, paradigms are shifting, and somewhere—in an unnoticed corner of our existence—the future is quietly rewriting itself.

So yes, change the present. Whether it changes the future is a story yet to be written. But at least you’ll be the one holding the pen.

Episode Summary

In this engaging episode, we peel back the layers of Sonia Catinean—a spirited adventurer and dedicated change-maker. A NYU Abu Dhabi alumna and fervent social justice advocate, Sonia takes us down the winding paths of her life journey. She unpacks her philosophy, globe-trotting adventures, and steadfast commitment to impactful work through projects and organisations like NA' AMAL. Fuelled by a belief in social research and public policy, she’s on a relentless quest to use her privilege for the greater good.

As a digital nomad, Sonia vividly recounts her diverse experiences. Living by the principles of courage, flexibility, and spontaneity, she regales us with tales of exploration, unexpected encounters, and the life lessons that followed. Throughout, Sonia emphasises the importance of serendipity, the ripple effect of small impactful actions, and the never-ending pursuit of joy and authenticity—even when it bucks conventional wisdom.

Don’t miss the full episode for an authentic and insightful conversation. Link

I've always been drawn to ravens; they're my spirit animal. Whenever I'm seeking answers, a walk usually brings one into my path, offering insight and wisdom. I encountered this one in a Tesco's Metro car park on walk into town. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but I stopped to have a silent conversation with him. We exchanged glances of recognition. I nodded, took a picture, and continued on my way. I consider this a good omen.

Picture yourself with a bow in hand, an arrow nocked, your gaze riveted on a distant target. You breathe in, focus, and let the arrow fly. The trajectory is straight, true, and hits the bull's-eye—only, the victory feels hollow. Eugen Herrigel, in his book, Zen and the Art of Archery, would tell you that you've missed the point entirely if you're basking in the glory of hitting the target. Much like Jack Kerouac's elusive 'It,' Zen is not something you find but something you feel, beating in the very marrow of your bones. The real art lies in dissolving the boundary between the archer and the arrow, between the surfer and the wave, between the mentor and the mentee.

"Put the thought of hitting right out of your mind! You can be a Master even if every shot does not hit. The hits on the target is only an outward proof and confirmation of your purposelessness at its highest, of your egolessness, your self-abandonment, or whatever you like to call this state. There are different grades of mastery, and only when you have made the last grade will you be sure of not missing the goal.” [Herrigel]

There's something ineffable about standing on the edge of human experience and peering into the abyss—whether that edge is a surfer confronting a towering wall of water or a spiritual coach whispering to a soul in turmoil. Hunter S. Thompson once said, "The edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." The line between mastery and disaster is perilously thin, but that's where the Zen is. That's where you touch something beyond the mere mechanics of action—you touch essence. It's the space where questions about life, death, and identity are not merely contemplated but felt in every sinew and cell.

Do we not all seek this in some form or another? Those who have never surfed a wave or loosed an arrow may find their edge in a deeply moving piece of literature or in the cadence of a beautifully spun podcast episode. The medium may differ, but the essence remains the same: the pursuit of a moment that stretches the boundaries of our 'self,' that gives us a glimpse of the eternal within the ephemeral.

"The right shot at the right moment does not come because you do not let go of yourself. You do not wait for fulfillment, but brace yourself for failure.”

Yet, let's be honest, this pursuit is often marginalized in today's fast-paced society. We live in a world of quick fixes, of hacks that promise to make us better, smarter, faster. But where is the space for soul work in a world obsessed with superficial metrics of success? Zen masters and surfers alike would scoff at the notion that faster is better, that accumulation is the aim. They understand something that many of us have forgotten: The journey itself is the reward, and the real mastery is in becoming one with the act, whether it’s riding a wave, shooting an arrow, or guiding a soul.

"What stands in your way is that you have a much too willful will. You think that what you do not do yourself does not happen.”

Perhaps then, the next time you find yourself engaged in an activity you're passionate about—be it writing, podcasting, or conversing over a cup of tea—pause for a moment. Are you focused solely on the end product, the accolades it might bring, the metrics it might achieve? Or are you present in the act, feeling the pulse of life in the very tips of your fingers, coursing through you, transforming you in small yet infinitely significant ways?

Miyamoto Musashi said, "Do nothing which is of no use." It's an invitation to trim away the inessential and focus on what truly matters. In doing so, we come closer to answering the Zen koan that our existence poses—by stretching the boundaries of self until they dissolve, leaving us in a state of unity with the act, and perhaps, the universe itself.

"You must learn to wait properly... By letting go of yourself, leaving yourself and everything yours behind you so decisively that nothing more is left of you but a purposeless tension”

As you draw back the bowstring of life, poised to release yet another arrow toward whatever target you've set your sights on, consider this: Is it the bull's-eye you're truly after, or is it the exquisite tension between your fingers and the string, the weight of the bow in your hand, the whispering wind in your ears? In that moment of perfect concentration, the target becomes irrelevant; it's the pure act of shooting that brings us closest to the art of living. That's where the Zen is. That's where you'll find the cosmic dance, not just in hitting the mark but in becoming the bow, the string, the arrow--each a seamless extension of your true self.

So, what's your wave? What's your arrow or whispering soul? Where do you find the Zen in your life? And when you do, will you recognize it for the cosmic dance that it is?

The house is quiet. I’m drinking coffee and eating Lotus Biscoff biscuits. I’m ruminating on a quest I’ve been on for years. A quest no less significant than Homer’s own. Yet somehow I feel more like Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill than Odysseus trying to find his way home. I feel stuck in a cosmic game of hide-and-seek with my soul.

My soul has been a fugitive for years, expertly hidden in the house of mirrors that is my subconscious. I can sense it lurking somewhere between dream and daylight, coyly peeking around the corners of consciousness like a child aware of its inherent value, aware that the game is meaningless if it’s too easily won.

I’m in search of a fuller comprehension of the universe, but it’s not just intellectual satisfaction I’m after. When I say I’m seeking a ‘lifeline,’ I mean a thread of wisdom, a trail of breadcrumbs that not only informs but transforms. I’m yearning for experiences that shift my paradigm, that turn my understanding inside out and force me to see the world differently. This is not merely about accumulating facts or philosophies; it’s about internal change, like a caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly. I’m hunting for those ah-ha moments where I can almost hear the audible click of a puzzle piece snapping into place, where suddenly the abstract becomes tangible, and I find myself a step closer to the spiritual wholeness I’ve been chasing.

Between language and thought falls the shadow for me, a gap where words often fail to capture the full essence of my contemplations. It’s like trying to paint the complexities of a sunset with only primary colours; the palette of human language sometimes feels insufficient. This shadow is both frustrating and fascinating. It’s frustrating because it represents the limits of my ability to articulate these vast concepts I grapple with. Yet, it’s fascinating because it’s within this shadowy realm that the inexpressible resides–emotions, realisations, and epiphanies that defy straightforward explanation. This shadow becomes a sanctuary of nuance, a space that invites me to dig deeper, to refine my understanding, and to stretch the boundaries of both thought and expression.

Each layer of complexity I unravel in the quest for my elusive soul adds a new hue to the spectrum of my understanding. This journey collapses time in a way that defies the linear constraints we often associate with life’s progressions. Each moment of search, every flicker of insight, isn’t just a point on a timeline; it’s a layer, an overlapping of past, present, and future possibilities. It’s as if every question I ask in my quest unearths memories that shape my present understanding while simultaneously casting ripples into the future, creating a complex tapestry of interconnected experiences. Time, in this sense, becomes more of a spiral than a straight line, each loop a revisitation and refinement of what has been and what is yet to come..

In the end, I’ve come to understand that the heart of this cosmic game isn’t just about finding; it’s about the ceaseless, relentless act of seeking itself. The thrill of the quest doesn’t reside in a final ‘eureka’ moment but in the myriad ‘almost-there’ instances that propel me forward. As long as the ink continues to flow from the wellspring of my soul, as long as words continue to fill the vast emptiness with echoes of meaning, the search will not just continue–it will evolve. I am forever an explorer of the mind, mapping out uncharted territories within and vast landscapes far beyond the self. The terrain may change, but the quest is eternal. And so, like Sisyphus, I take joy in the journey, in the eternal push upwards, because therein lies the essence of existence itself I believe.

It's 8:22PM. I find myself in a hotel room at the Premier Inn in Kingston Upon Thames. My belly is full of the delightful pizza I ate at Stone's Pizzeria. Ever since Jeremy's visit last week, I've been on quite the pizza eating spree. Jeremy and I share a mutual love for pizza and often joke about how we could eat it every single day. His current dietary needs gave us the perfect excuse to eat pizza nearly every single day he was here—eight out of the nine days he was here, to be precise.

Pizza hunting aside, I've been thinking about my thinking and reflecting on how I approach decisions, big or small, and the concept of "Mental Models" sprang to mind. Have you ever stumbled uppon Shane Parrish of Farnam Street? He writes a lot about mental models. If you're ever curious enough to go a little deep than I'm about to, his blog is a good place to start.

But today, let''s paddle in the shallow end of the pool. I want to share some mental models I often lean on, perhaps offering you a slice (pun intended 🍕) of wisdom in the process.

1. Pareto Principle (80/20 Rule): It's like realizing that just a couple of pizza toppings can define the entire flavor of the pie. Most effects come from a few causes.

2. Occam's Razor: Keep the toppings simple, and you're more likely to enjoy the pizza. Similarly, the simplest explanation is often the right one.

3. Confirmation Bias: It's a bit like always gravitating towards your favorite pizza topping. Our minds often lean into what they already fancy, seeking out information that aligns with our existing beliefs.

4. First Principles Thinking: Elon Musk swears by this. Imagine not knowing what a pizza is and reconstructing it from the basic idea of bread, sauce, and toppings. It's about boiling things down to their essence and rebuilding from there.

5. Hanlon's Razor: When your pizza delivery is late, is it a deliberate act of sabotage or just a traffic jam? This mental model advises, "Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by simplicity or oversight.”

6. Dunning-Kruger Effect: Ever met someone who claims to be a pizza connoisseur after trying just one type? It’s like thinking you’re an expert too soon. This model captures those who are overly confident with limited knowledge.

7. Reciprocity: Think about how you feel when someone treats you to a pizza. You naturally want to return the favor. It's in our nature to give back when we receive.

8. Cognitive Dissonance: It's that inner turmoil when you say you're on a diet but can't resist a slice. When we hold conflicting beliefs, we feel compelled to resolve the mismatch.

9. Regret Minimization Framework: Jeff Bezos swears by this. Picture deciding between a classic Margherita or an experimental flavor. You choose based on which you’d regret less in the future.

10. Zero-Sum Game: If there's only one slice of pizza left, and I take it, you won't get any. It’s a scenario where one's gain is another's loss. Useful in competition but not always the best mindset for collaboration.

With all these mental models, sometimes it's about picking the right "flavor" for the situation. And just like with pizza, there's no one-size-fits-all.

So, tell me, which of these models resonates with you the most? Do you have your own "recipes" or ways of thinking that guide your choices?

Cheers to good pizza and insightful reflections!

P.S. And for the record, there's only one true pizza...

The forest is like a green temple, with the tall trees serving as the pillars. The hawk up there in the sky is preaching today, with some backup from the other birds in the trees. But the lull is my favourite part; I especially enjoy the silences that are so thick they seem alive. In those times, my mind wanders to a previous existence where I might have been a shaman, a pathfinder, or a myth-maker.

“People don’t take trips, trips take people.” - John Steinbeck

At Upton Fields Nature Reserve, the air smells like a mixture of wet earth and wild nature. It’s Friday morning, and I’m surrounded by this sanctuary. It’s a 78-acre dreamland with marshes that whisper old secrets, pools that reflect the sky’s moods, and woods full of trees that stand guard over this Eden tucked away in a small corner of Warwickshire.

The trails here are like a winding maze, with little alcoves where you can stop, take a breath, and lose yourself in the natural world. There are rare orchids that peek shyly out of the grass, and dragonflies do aerial acrobatics over still pools. In 1972, the area was named a site of special scientific interest, but you don’t need a sign to know that it’s magical.

But as I walk down this path, with my feet crunching on the dirt carpet and my breath just visible in the cool morning air, I feel uneasy about more than just the many colours and shapes of nature. You know what that feels like? When your bones tell you that something big is about to happen, like you’re on the edge of an unseen cliff. I can’t stop thinking about the call of the wild - this strong urge to get back on the mountain tracks.

We’re almost done with this lazy weather we call summer in the UK.

With all of life’s chaos and monotony, our natural need for excitement and meaning can get lost. We read self-help books and pay for wellness channels, but we often miss the easy, powerful lessons that nature has to teach us. And what better way is there to figure out the puzzles of life than to climb a mountain?

The hills are not just piles of dirt and rocks; they are also live books. Each peak has a name, a bit of history, and obstacles that go beyond the physical. Each climb is an odyssey. A plan is starting to formulate in my head. It involves mountains and wild camping.

I look up at the sky. When was the last time I made a deal with the heavens?

I’m going to the mountains again to climb peaks and listen to what the mountains have to say. So it’s not just as an exciting quest, but also as a spiritual journey I’m about to embark on. It’s going to be a careful, slow search for the most important but intangible parts of life: meaning, purpose, and maybe a bit of poetic beauty. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find the answers I’ve been looking for in the quiet solitude of high peaks and quiet woods.

Who else is hearing the call?

Sometimes when you go looking for yourself you get more lost than you were before. And sometimes that’s a good thing.

“I feel lost.” We often utter these words with a sense of anxiety and existential dread. Especially if you’re in your 40’s and 50’s because apparently, we’re suppose to have life figured out by then.

But if you look at this with a different set of eyes, you might find that to be lost is to be surrounded by possibilities, a myriad of roads less travelled, each begging you to take a step. It’s as though you’re standing in Jorge Luis Borges' “Library of Babel,” surrounded by an infinite number of books containing every possible combination of letters. Choice is your blessing and your curse; every action, a foreshadowing of existential consequence.

Consider the irony. To look for yourself implies a separation - an “I” searching for another “I,” a seeker and a sought. Who’s the “who” doing the searching, charting the unknown terrains of the psyche, trying to place a “You Are Here” sticker on your soul? Philosophers like Descartes wrestled with this duality. “Cogito, ergo sum,” he asserted. I think, therefore I am. Yet, the more you think, the more the boundaries blur, the self becomes a construct, an abstract notion as elusive as time.

Getting lost can be beneficial. To be lost is to abandon the beaten path of societal expectations, religious doctrine, and cultural norms. Every wrong turn a lesson. Every detour reveals another layer of your being. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been lost. Stripped of the familiar, blown around like a seed in the wind, free to take root in new pursuits, unhindered by preconceived notions and habits of being.

To be lost is to invite psychological tension between comfort and growth. You can sense Kierkegaard’s ghost looming in the background warning you against the paralysis of too many choices, too much freedom. But you push into the dark anyway hoping to stumble upon undiscovered parts of yourself. Maybe you might unearth some hidden fears or awaken your dormant dreams, or discover your hidden potential.

Sometimes being lost is not an end, but a beginning of an evolution, a chance to redraw the borders of “self,” to rewrite the narrative of who you are and who you could be. Wander long enough and you might just find that to be lost is to be truly free - free to question, to explore, to become.

So let yourself get lost. In the chaos of the unknown, you might find beauty; in the confusion, you might find harmony; and in despair, you might find meaning. It’s the ultimate gamble in the casino of life, where the stakes are high, but the rewards are unparalleled - a deep understanding, a richer experience, and a life lived in the colour of curiosity and wonder, rather than in the mere black and white of conformity and comfort.

This past week, I’ve been on a pilgrimage of sound and story with my good friend Jeremy Nathan. Back before COVID, we had planned to go on a grand musical odyssey through the UK. Well, you know the story: lockdown happened, and for two years, none of us did much outside of the house.

Then, a week before last, misfortune struck, a change of plans happened, and an opportunity opened up, allowing us to revisit our plans for a music history tour of England tracing the British influence on classic rock.

Read the latest dispatch from a Barefoot Philosopher’s Notes

from On the Road:

Dean: “Sal, we’ve got to go and never stop until we get there."
Sal: “where are we going to go?"
Dean: “I don’t know, but we can’t stop until we get there.”

Do you ever wake up in the morning and think, where am I going and what is it all for? Do we just keep going until we get to the end and stop, as the Cheshire Cat advised Alice?

soundtrack: blaze of glory

remember the halcyon days when our thoughts were the needle, and time was the vinyl spinning in an unhurried rhythm that allowed us to truly groove to the beat of our own inner worlds?

before our thumbs danced across screens, they turned pages - physical ones - or they twiddled in anticipation or deep thought.

there was a sacredness to solitude, a holy communion with oneself that demanded nothing less than full presence.

we knew the art of being then in a way that seems almost exotic now, like an endangered animal spotted in the wild.

nowadays, daydreaming is a subversive act.

Does there exist an unforgiving cosmic ledger that balances our deeds and misdeeds with clinical precision? Am I doomed to reap what a sow? Or is the universe more forgiving than that? I like to believe that it is, otherwise I probably am doomed! Every decision we make has outcomes and consequences, big and small. I make so many decisions in a day; it’s nearly impossible for me to track all the variables that will have an impact on me some time in the future. I’ve had 3 cups of coffee so far today, how’s that going to play itself out long term? The short term is easier, at some point in the next couple of hours I’ll need to find someplace pee.

Strolling beside a lake on a foggy morning, I relish the solitude of the forest. But every few minutes I hear a splash as a fish leaps to catch a bug. The sound awakens my inner angler who urges me to cast a line.

In my pocket, a have a copy of Jack Kerouac’s Big Sur, a novel he wrote when he needed to escape from noise and the pressure of fame. Like Thoreau, he retreated to a cabin, not to see how frugally he could live, but to fight his inner demons.

Growing up, I loved stories of heroic fantasy. Stories like the Lord of the Rings, Conan the Barbarian, and the Dragon and the George. These magical worlds full of swords and sorcery sparked my imagination. Once upon a time stories of magic and myth used to give people a sense of meaning and purpose, nowadays, they merely serve as entertainment far from reflecting empirical truth.

But if you look closer, modern myths also surround us, though we don’t always recognise them as such. Take money, for example. The paper bills in my wallet only have value because we collectively pretend and agree they do. Without this illusion, the entire economic system would crumble. Many of our personal beliefs and social norms depend on shared mythologies to shape our realities.

So perhaps the question is not whether myths are “true” in the factual sense. Rather, we should ask what purpose they serve. Some myths are toxic; they distort reality and promote harmful misconceptions. But others uplift our spirit, remind us of our ideals, and promote ethical purpose. The myths we choose to embrace reflect who we aspire to be, both individually and collectively.

There’s a balance between scientific empiricism with mythic imagination. Too much reliance on illusions risks dangerous delusions. But a strictly materialist worldview drains the meaning from life. The thing is, we are story-making creatures who subconsciously weave magic and science to create meaning, purpose, and significance into the myths we live by.