Derek Sivers spent four years writing How to Live. The book contains everything he’s ever learned. His first draft was over 1,000 pages. Then, he edited them down to 113. The result is a masterpiece that’s widely regarded as Derek’s magnum opus.

This post started as a piece about deliberate entertainment. About shifting your mindset from “What’s on TV?” to “I can watch whatever I want, whenever I want, without ads. I just need to know where to look.” But the idea became too big in my head. So I deleted it all, started from scratch, and here we are.

I wish we could see what’s no longer there. A sort of hologram surrounding whatever we’re looking at. “Oh, this used to be ten times the size! So much marble! So much to chisel away for the artist.”

Adding is easy, subtracting is hard. You can only see what’s in front of you, but if you try, you can imagine so much more—including the long, stony journey it took to get there. Learn to appreciate not just what remains but what has been removed. Ask not only “How much had to be done?” Be sure to also ask “How much had to be deleted?”

That’s one of the many big questions asked in Pantheon, an animated TV series. In the show, David, a brilliant programmer, comes down with an incurable disease. His company, Logorhythms, has been working on uploading human minds into the cloud, and so David decides to become the first test subject. Miraculously, the experiment succeeds—and a litany of moral questions unravels from there.

If a company manages to digitize a person, do they have the rights to some of that person’s labor? If you could upload yourself at any point in your life to avoid death, would you do it? And when? Is the person inside the web the same as the old one outside, and how can we know for sure? What if cyberspace is more fun than reality, and no one wants to stay back and maintain the necessary hardware? Would we shut down the internet and go back to simpler times? Would we be able to live without it long-term or clamor to get back online? Where will the energy for all this digital activity come from? And would anyone even still have to work? It’s an endless thread once you start pulling, and not even the world’s fastest computer can process it to a definitive conclusion.

Towards the end, the show begins making big time jumps. One year later. Five years later. 20 years later. Eventually, we cut millennia into the future. It’s only a brief glimpse at how these sweeping technological changes compound in the long run, but it’s enough to serve two interesting indications.

First, you never know what humans will do until you put them in a situation where all the options they could want are actually on the table. Ellen, for example, who is David’s wife, is always adamantly against uploading—until, eventually, she decides to join the cloud herself. New goals fuel new possibilities, and new possibilities enable new goals. Asking someone what they would do if everything was possible is not the same as actually making everything possible for them.

The second indication is that humanity will never run out of problems. If we solved death, disease, and despair, we’d find new constraints and start throwing our creativity at them. In the show, the first uploaded people have a flaw in their code. If they can’t fix it, they’ll disintegrate and die a second, digital death on top of their physical one. Once the flaw is fixed, however, where will the uploaded intelligence live and draw the vast resources it needs from? After the show answers that question, it repeats it right away at scale: At some point, yet another form of digital intelligence emerges—300 billion specimens of it. Where will they live if they’re to support the uploaded humans? Construction work on a massive satellite ring begins, but that’s when moral discussions break out. Progress never stops, but it also never stops being thwarted. That’s evolution—and humans are as subject to it as everything else nature has ever wrought.

Be it a book, a TV show, or a philosophical discussion: Every now and then, grapple with the big questions. They’re not better than the small ones. If anything, they show us that our challenges large and tiny are one and the same. We’ll never solve life, so we might as well take our time—and dive into some beautiful stories while we’re at it.

It was late afternoon, and dozens of people had already visited our exhibition booth. The next guy was looking for a German-speaker. He found me. A tall man in a blue jumpsuit, he immediately proceeded to pour out what was inside of him in a mild East German accent.

The man turned out to be a retired owner of a small construction company who had taken a significant chunk of his retirement funds and put it into our company’s cryptocurrency. He was currently down on his investment and needed to vent. I was surprised at how eloquently he did it.

The man was clearly intelligent. He illustrated our company’s and industry’s problems with so many colorful allegories, it was hard to keep track. If he had written down his thoughts and structured them, it would have made for a great article. Instead, he kept talking at me for a good 10-20 minutes, in which I said all but six sentences, if those.

Suddenly, one of my team members interrupts us. “Sorry to barge in, but Nik, our boss is looking for you on the first floor balcony.” Relieved, I left the exhibition hall, ready to thank my boss for whatever problem she might throw at me next. It couldn’t possibly have been harder than sitting under an endless information shower run by a stranger at an event where your senses are already constantly overloaded.

When I got to the balcony, all I saw was security, a few stragglers, and people down in the main stage area converting the space into a dinner hall. No sign of my boss. A friendly man advised me the room was currently closed, and I left in a bit of a daze. On the way out, the colleague who had alerted me found me. Lo and behold, she deserved my thanks—the whole “you’re needed elsewhere” was a rescue ruse to get me away from an unfruitful conversation, and she played it by the book.

“Oh my god, thank you!” I said. I had been ready to let the man finish, of course, but it had also been clear our chat was headed nowhere. Still, I hope he felt a bit lighter after getting some of his concerns off his chest.

There’s a good book by Sam Harris called Lying. It shows reasonable ways and an ethical argument towards always telling the truth. It’s a great read to aspire to live by—but every now and then, if a friend is worth saving, the little lie that could can go a long way.

I felt like a clogged pipe. Ideas, emotions, effort—nothing would flow through. It was all just pent up behind some inner, invisible wall. “Why am I annoyed at everything?” I wondered. Then, my dad asked me to go for a walk.

That’s when I realized: I hadn’t left the house in over two days. It was simply time to move. To get some fresh air and touch grass.

The other day, I learned about the sacred olive tree near the Acropolis. It reminded me of how grounding it feels to be in nature—and how much better our lives would be if we managed to do so at least for a few minutes every day.

After I came back from the walk, the blockage in my pipe had turned into dust. Life flowed once more.

Have you noticed? Nature is rarely annoying. Even a bad time outside can be a good time when compared to staring at screens. And as it turns out, no matter where we are, we still live in nature. Sometimes, getting a real-world reminder of that is all it takes to move forward.

Here’s one of the first lessons you’ll learn if you join the Pokémon card hobby: You’ll never be able to keep up with everything. There’s too much happening too quickly for any one person to follow, let alone master.

Beyond the thousands of individual cards, dozens of sets, and many different verticals, from grading to sealed products to promos to mini sets, themed cards, master sets, and more, The Pokémon Company releases new sets every two months. Most of them contain between 100 and 200 cards. Most of those come in different variations. If you don’t pick your arena and pick it quickly, you’ll drown in information and little else.

When I first rejoined the hobby after decades, I foolishly thought I could master each new set. Ha! Now, I know that even in collecting along the specific themes I’ve chosen—which might still be too many on their own—I’ll have to skip entire sets to maintain my sanity. It’s not even a matter of financial fatigue, though that, too, is a factor, of course. Even if you had infinite money and nothing else to do, you’d quickly burn out facing infinite possibilities.

Last summer, Pokémon released a special set. A double set. That’s twice the cards. Thankfully, it was themed after a generation of Pokémon I barely know, let alone care about. I was actually happy. “Yup. I’ll sit this one out! Woo!” It was a relief to decide not to participate. That choice is open to you more often than you realize.

Your attention makes it subjects valuable. But in order to dedicate it to things, first, you must carve it out of an empty space. That space is created by what you reject. If you don’t deny, you have nothing to work with. That’s why it’s not only perfectly fine to sit one out. It’s essential—for it creates the space that will hold your most important efforts. Find comfort and confidence every time you hit “Skip.”

In the first round of Culinary Class Wars‘ second season, some 80 great chefs were reduced down to 20. That’s three out of four cooks sent home before the Korean cooking show even properly began!

To make matters worse, the judges decided to have two batches of 40 chefs each cook simultaneously. As a so-called “Black Spoon,” you ended up having to prepare a dish in 100 minutes at a medium-sized station—and under the watchful eyes of your future competitors, the “White Spoons,” too.

As the judges made their rounds, tasting dish after dish, quickly eliminating folks left and right, it was interesting to see what each competitor chose to serve. It was their first outing, and of course, everyone wanted to shine. Naturally, most folks reverted to the classics they knew how to make well. Often, however, that very defaulting to the familiar got them eliminated.

One guy was famous for bringing molecular cooking to Korea. There’s nothing usual about a molecular dish, particularly not the sugar syrup apple he made, which was filled with pulverized apple ice cream. But the dish itself was one the chef had invented 20 years ago, and it showed. “It does feel like it’s from the early 2000s. But we’re not in that time anymore,” the judge said. “Eliminated.”

Another chef, meanwhile, chose to make rabbit. He was the only cook who picked that meat. Rabbit is not common in Korea, and even the judges hadn’t tasted it. But he did manage to prepare it like a traditional beef steak and really bring out its flavor. As a result, he passed.

When the odds are against you by a factor of three to one, there is no safe option. The only real choice is to be bold and stand out. In this case, the judges vetted each candidate not just versus everyone else but also against their own standards. Did they just cook what they were used to? Or did they dare go out on a limb? If they could transfer their skills and unique approaches to a new, creative idea, they won.

Different isn’t always better, but better often starts with different. And in a sea of similarity, sometimes, different is enough to make it to the next round. So when in doubt, choose different.

Around the time I turned 18, I couldn’t wait to get contact lenses. My glasses had felt like a burden for a while. In terms of looks. In terms of quality of life. Even playing video games seemed cooler while wearing contact lenses.

For many years after that, I always made sure to put in contact lenses when I left the house. In some of those years, I probably spent weeks at a time wearing them for 12 hours a day. It took until my mid-20s that I started feeling less self-conscious about wearing glasses. But once I started working for myself, I had bigger fish to fry. I wasn’t trying to please the imaginary love of my life anymore—and hey, if she was going to appear, I felt sure she’d like me well enough with glasses. Like I said: less self-conscious!

Despite this, I always had a plan in the back of my hand: laser eye surgery. It always seemed like a good deal, but various eye doctors had told me I’d have to wait into my 20s for my eyes to fully grow out. You also couldn’t do it when your power wasn’t stable. And it was expensive, of course. Therefore, in 2020, I was thrilled to switch to a health insurance that would cover part of the surgery after I was with them for at least three years.

Well, those three years now passed three years ago, and I still haven’t gotten LASIK surgery. So, what’s up? Of course, different doctors tell you different stories. One said it was a good time to do it, and I’d get a lot out of it, including some health benefits in my case. Another said because of my eyes, they could only use a certain method, and that method might be more painful and take much longer to heal. And so on. So I kept going back and forth.

One day, however, I caught myself thinking: “Hmm, what glasses should I get after my surgery? I won’t need anything with power, so that’s neat. I could probably have multiple models, swap between them, and so on!” After a moment, I realized: “Wait a minute. You like wearing glasses? You intend to keep wearing them even when you no longer need to? When did this happen?”

You never know exactly, of course. When your mind subtly shifts from one position to another. You just one day happen to sit at the opposite end of the table—and if you’re lucky, you’ll notice you actually like it over there. Perhaps even more than you enjoyed the other side.

I’ve worn glasses for most of a quarter century. I’m a writer, intellectual, and Harry Potter fan. I believe glasses suit both me and my personality, and, at this point, I’d feel weird without them. So of course, the last thing I need is laser eye surgery—and I can count how many times I’ve worn contacts in the last 12 months on one hand.

You’re allowed to change on all time frames. From one minute to the next. Over the course of an intense six months. Or gradually, even glacially, as decade after decade goes by. One day you can’t wait to wear contacts, the next you’ll wear glasses all the time. And even when it takes years to go from A to B, it might feel as if there’s nothing but a moment between them. That, too, is life—and if there’s one thing I can see clearly now, it’s that it’s one of many aspects that make it beautiful.

It was an ill-timed request, but hey, it happens. “Can you help with a short pitch deck for this thingy?” It was a medium-busy Thursday, and I sat on trains and cars without internet access for most of the afternoon. Still, I felt bad about not getting to it faster.

The next morning, I started right away. Then, my colleague and I sat together for a good 90 minutes and whipped it into shape. Not bad! Suddenly, we were about 80% of the way there. All because we had hunkered down and simply pushed the projected as far as it needed to be pushed in that moment.

It’s never too late for that, you know? To sit down, roll up your sleeves, and do the work until you pull through. Hard work has no expiry date.

This applies to more immediate tasks as it does to passion projects long abandoned. Pick something, pick it back up, and drive it as far as you can in a day. You’ll be surprised at how far you can go with a bit of urgency and focus.

Hard work is always in your back pocket—and most feelings of stress or anxiety go away when you play that card.

The other day, I had four different ideas for this blog while walking home from the bakery. Four! That felt like some kind of record. I was almost sad that I had already written my post for the day.

I thought about jotting the ideas down once I got home. Sometimes, I do. If a thought feels interesting but elusive, I might open a new draft right then and there. This time, I chose not to.

Important ideas always come back. Most of the rest are either average or just shiny distractions. Still, letting go of these ideas did make me feel anxious for a second. Why? Because when you write a daily blog, you need a lot of average ideas regardless. You need any idea on any given day. And in that sense, throwing away four of them in one fell swoop feels like a waste.

But this is the same as trying to eat all your meals for a week in one sitting, isn’t it? It doesn’t work—because nourishment must happen in increments. The only way to maintain a daily habit is to have faith in your ability to perform that habit every day. With writing, you must trust in the idea river.

The idea river keeps flowing even when you don’t. It’s always on, always pattering along. During my bakery trip, the river spat out four fish and threw them right at my feet. That’s amazing. It also happens once every blue moon. And since I had already taken a fish for the day, I had to chuck them all back in.

The next morning, all of my ideas were gone. I started again from scratch. This time, I wished for a fish but none were handed to me on a silver plate. So I had to reach in and grab what I could. I don’t remember what I wrote about, but, as always, I did manage to pull something from the river.

You’ll never run out of ideas. The main reason we trip ourselves up is that we’d like to control when we have good ideas. “I need a stroke of genius, and I need it now!” we tell ourselves. But Edison did not know on which attempt he’d invent the lightbulb, and neither can we command our brains to deliver our best work right when it’s most convenient.

Trust in the idea river. Fetch one fish every day, and enjoy the big game when it lands in your lap. The rest is just waiting for the lightning—and you might as well walk to the bakery in that time.

Work meetings are broadly considered a boring activity. I also have too many. Still, I find them fascinating. Meetings and time, for example. Whether our weekly team meeting is 30 minutes or 90 minutes, what we talk about always expands to fill that time. It also doesn’t seem to affect whether our discussion goes off on a tangent or not.

Yesterday was a lesson in meetings and energy. Everyone had many thoughts and ideas. There was more creative energy in the room than there was time to explore all of it. So we got sidetracked and ran over.

Later in the day, a similar meeting happened. One person’s internet connection kept cutting out. Another started a new rabbit hole for us to go down. I presented some research that had too much depth for the session. After four hours of this for the day, I thought: “Phew, this is rough.”

But then I realized: “Actually, all you have to do is sit through. These aren’t our best meetings, but it’s totally fine. Sitting through stuff with good people is a privilege.” Plus, sometimes great insights come out of not-so-great meetings, and you’ll never know in advance.

Most of the time when we’re stuck in uncomfortable situations, we know we can endure. We merely forget that being able to practice our endurance already puts us on the sunny side of life. Enjoy sitting through, and whatever might follow will likely be a pleasant surprise.