A Good Play To Act Out

In the video game Crisis Core, one of the main characters, Genesis, is obsessed with a poem titled Loveless. Thanks to the developers’ creative efforts, the five-act ballad is a full-fledged piece of art, both in English and Japanese, and it has been featured in Final Fantasy game releases spanning almost 30 years.

Whereas most of those games turn Loveless into a small easter egg, however, in Crisis Core, Genesis insists on bending the entire storyline to fit his favorite poem’s narrative. Three friends, a goddess bearing a mysterious gift, estrangement, strife, and sacrifice: Loveless has it all. So when Genesis’ original plan to cure his genetic disease fails, he figures why not turn himself into a tragic hero?

As he recites line after line from Loveless every time you encounter him, Genesis sure has an idea of how he’d like things to go. For him. For you. For both of your childhood friends. But even in his determination, he admits he doesn’t truly know which role he will play. Will it be the hero? The prisoner? The lost friend to make a last-minute return? It seems Genesis almost doesn’t mind.

In the end, Genesis won’t become the hero he wishes to be. Yet, somehow, he’ll still see most of Loveless enacted in a way that makes him proud to have been part of “the production.” And as fans and players try to decipher the poem’s real meaning, perhaps it issues one reminder to us above all: It’s okay to write a script for your life—and even if you don’t get to be the protagonist, it can still be worth the while. After all, if the play is great, what does it matter which role you’ll portray?

“Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return,” some of Loveless‘ final lines read. So if your current performance does not have a happy ending, remember the parts that deserve your gratitude—and then whip out your pen and write the next lyric.

Wooden Boxes

Last summer, I went for a hike. At the top of the mountain, there was the obligatory hut for rest and nourishment, but also a tiny chapel. I went inside and, on the left-hand wall, there was a wooden box. Kind of like a picture frame, but deeper, and with a simple pane of glass to protect its contents.

Inside the box, several small, two-page flyers adorned the backside of this construction. 19, in fact. Each of them was held up by a pin, clearly visible to any chapel visitor, and each flyer came with the same elements: a name, a photograph, a line of poetry or a Bible verse, and two dates. Born. Died. 19 times. 19 people. 19 destinies in one wooden box.

Sometimes the picture was in color; sometimes it was black-and-white. Sometimes the gap between the two dates was large; at other times it was rather small. 84 years. 63 years. 41 years. 34 years. 17 years. Some of the flyers had a mountain on them, signifying the person had died during a climb. Others showed a firefighter in gear, a man in his garden, a young girl taking a selfie.

It was a somber moment. One minute you’re enjoying the sun on a hike, the next you stumble into death. But it was also beautiful. A miniature shrine which made it easy to linger. To pause for a few minutes and pay respects—to people I never knew, but all of whom were loved by someone. Someone who made that flyer, ventured up the mountain, and pinned it to this wooden box.

It seems we all end up in one of those one way or another. It could be a large one, a small one, or one framed with glass in a small chapel in the middle of nowhere. But a wooden box it shall be regardless. Taking a beat in front of the ones we’re not in isn’t the only way to celebrate life while we have it, yet there are worse places to start.

Inhale esprit, exhale mountain air and memories. Do it every day. Collect moments, and respect those before and around you. That way, whichever wooden box you’ll land in, you won’t be alone—and whoever comes to say hello will feel your energy long after you can no longer shake their hand.

Nothing Is True, Everything Is Permitted

Thus goes the creed of the Assassins, a secret organization sworn to protect humanity’s ability to choose. Whereas the Templars would rather do away with free will and keep the world at peace by putting it to sleep, the Assassins insist on their right to make mistakes and live with the consequences—for better or for worse.

In the movie and video game series, both sides take drastic measures to serve their aims. In the real world, most of us live much closer to Templar rule than Assassin chaos. It is usually convention that traps us, not bucking the trend once too often. And while the answer lies not in a cape and a hidden blade, it may hide in a gray, foggy area we commonly dare not enter.

Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Truth is subjective. Identity is optional. That’s what the creed reminds us of when we need to break the mold. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to have a quirky hobby. It’s okay to change your mind from one second to the next.

We are not Templars. We are not Assassins. But the shadows we’re afraid of are often the very ones proving our unique light is still shining bright. Let’s find the courage to double-check.

Two Hamsters in the Background

We had some friends over for coffee and cake. Instead of just playing music from a speaker, I put on a lo-fi mix on our TV. Like most music videos of this kind, it featured a drawn wallpaper image. In the background, there were two cute hamsters, sitting, sipping tea from their cups.

It was only a small detail, but my gut told me the hamsters would be a hit. And sure enough… “Ha, how cool are those hamsters!” one guest eventually said.

We don’t put effort into details because we’re certain they’ll get noticed. We do it because we trust that, in the long run, they will matter.

A funny hamster picture might make someone’s day. A clean sink could inspire them to organize their home. And sprinkles on the cake may make them want to bake again for the first time in years.

Show up for the details. Even without moving, two hamsters in the background can spark their own kind of momentum.

One Does Not Love Breathing

Scout is smart for her age. By the time she goes to school, she can already read. Her teacher, instead of being amazed, sees her as a threat—to the other children but also to herself. When she is told to “tell her father to stop teaching her at home,” which he never has, she realizes for the first time: “What I have is precious, and there are people out there who’d take it away from me.”

It is at this point in To Kill a Mockingbird that Harper Lee issues a profound observation through her six-year-old protagonist: “Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.”

This idea has two implications: For one, love and worry go hand in hand. If you’re not at least a little concerned about losing what you have, chances are you don’t love it—or, more importantly, them—all that much.

For another, a small-minded teacher attacking a child might make us realize that we needn’t justify what comes naturally. Scout happened to sit on her father’s lap when he was reading the newspaper for so many hours, eventually, she picked up the words. Why would she have to defend herself for continuing to collect more of them as she went along? In a way, when we justify what we do for its own sake, we’ve already lost. It’s not our job to comply with the world’s expectations.

When it comes to the people, activities, and experiences pulling at your heartstrings, don’t worry about being worried—and remember there’s no need to justify what comes as naturally as moving new air into your lungs.

The 3 Kinds of Eternity

Harry, the antihero of Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, suffers a prolonged, fundamental identity crisis. One idea that gives him comfort is the concept of eternity, which various supporting characters define anew for him in illustrious ways.

There is Goethe, for example, who appears to Harry on several occasions, claiming that “eternity is but a moment, just long enough for a joke.” Harry’s friend Hermine, on the other hand, claims that eternity is “the realm of the real,” including such great human feats as the music of Mozart, epic poems, and the saints who provided a great example for their fellow men. “But eternity also includes the image of every real deed, the strength of every real emotion, even if no one knows about it and sees it and writes it down for posterity. In eternity, there is no posterity, only the contemporary.”

It all sounds mysterious and vague at first, but if you sit with it, you’ll see that, in essence, Harry’s friends are drawing a map for him, and that map breaks down into three particular kinds of eternity:

  1. Liberating insignificance: Compared to the age of history, the age of Earth, the age of the universe, you are but a grain of dust in the desert. Most likely, nothing you do will ever matter, and even if it does—what are 500 years of remembering Shakespeare against millions of years of his nonexistence? Nothing has meaning, so don’t take your life and yourself so seriously.
  2. Empowering significance: Paradoxically, at the same time that nothing matters, everything is indelible. When you stroke your partner’s cheek, that’s real. When you eat a piece of fish, that’s real. And when you feel a strong emotion while looking at a painting, that, too, is real. Everything you do, feel, and experience is definitive, and it will all become an infinitesimally small part of that gargantuan, overwhelming tapestry that is eternity. So in a way, everything has meaning, and perhaps you should act accordingly.
  3. Transcending presence: If both everything and nothing we do becomes part of eternity, how are we to live? As Harry’s friends hint at and he eventually realizes, “eternity was nothing more than the salvation of time, was in a way its return to innocence, its reconversion into space.” In other words: Live in the present. Give yourself fully to every moment, because in an existence where time squeezes us from both sides, with both crushing pressure and debilitating meaninglessness, the only path forward is to transcend time by surrendering to it. Once we relinquish control, we are free.

In the novel, Harry recognizes this last kind of eternity, the final stage of enlightenment, by a particular type of laughter he hears throughout the book. “The laughter of the immortals,” he calls it. It’s not laughing at someone. It’s “only light, only brightness.” An innocent, childlike, wholehearted laughter from deep within. Whenever he hears this laughter, be it from Goethe in a dream or from himself in a strange situation he takes with surprising ease, Harry knows: Eternity is but a moment, just long enough for a joke—and that’s all we need for a lifetime of happiness.

Connecting Is Leading

My friend Mike hates giving presentations. He doesn’t enjoy being the center of attention in a group of people. He’d also be the last to volunteer to do role plays at work. Despite this, nobody I know would hesitate to call Mike a leader. In his own words, he just “leads from behind.”

Mike has worked as a freelancer for many years. I’ve never seen him pitch to get clients. People just “find him.” I’m always amazed at how many people he knows, who he knows, and how he bumps into the right person at the right time. Needless to say, if I’m trying to connect with some person or company, Mike is the first person I ask.

“Connect” is the right keyword. Malcolm Gladwell would call Mike “a Connector.” In The Tipping Point, Gladwell describes them as “people with a special gift for bringing the world together.” They are “the kinds of people who know everyone,” and “all of us know someone like this.” My friend Ted from third grade is a Connector. At our annual city festival reunion, you can’t walk ten meters without him shaking hands with someone. My friend Marc from my Master’s is another Connector. He’s had dinner or worked with seemingly every other person in Munich.

Connectors aren’t leaders in a typical sense. They don’t sketch out some socially or technologically utopian vision and then rally everyone around them to make it come true. They don’t necessarily love the limelight. But lead they do nonetheless—lead you to people, places, and new possibilities.

When I met Mike, I introduced him to other people I knew. Most of them were writers. Mike, on the other hand, connected me both to new people inside my bubble as well as folks completely outside of it. As Gladwell said, we all know Connectors—but we rarely consider how priceless of a friend these people actually are. That was one of the key findings of his book: Yes, the entire world is connected in a surprisingly tight network, but that network runs through just a handful of people. Remove the Connectors, and the entire network collapses.

If you’re neither a leader in the most traditional sense of the word nor a first follower, you might be a Connector. Connecting, too, is leading. And if you’re not? Then that just means you’re a leader of another kind—and that you have all the more reason to be grateful for the Connectors in your life.

Early Following Is Leading

In 2010, Derek Sivers gave a short-and-sweet TED talk that changed my understanding of leadership forever. Showing a short clip of a shirtless guy dancing by himself at a music festival, Derek explains: “First, a leader needs the guts to stand out and be ridiculed.” Well, that part I knew. It’s the part every movie, book, interview, and case study explains over and over again.

In this particular case, however, the leader’s 100% improvised dance moves are easy to follow. Therefore, soon, his first follower joins him, taking on a role that, as it turns out, is just as crucial as the leader’s: “The first follower is what transforms a lone nut into a leader,” Sivers says. This is “an underestimated form of leadership in itself.” After all, the first follower will stand out almost as much as the leader.

As soon as the third person joins, however, we’re no longer talking about one or two lone nuts. “Three is a crowd, and a crowd is news,” Sivers continues. Shortly thereafter, two more people join, then three more, then people already start running so they can “be part of the in-crowd.” Before long, not dancing would put you in the minority, and so within minutes, everyone is on their feet—”and that’s how you make a movement,” Sivers concludes.

Whether it’s an employee pitching a new initiative, a mom setting up a baking meetup, or a lonely dancer following the beat: An original leader’s courage sure is unparalleled. But if their vision is to become more visceral, a real community people want to be a part of and help push forward, they need a first follower to bridge the gap between them and the rest of the world.

That follower might not carry quite the same desire or creative spark that the leader does, but they’ll risk almost as much ridicule, all while comforting the lone nut as they keep dancing, normalizing their behavior for others to see and consider joining the cause. They rarely get it, but a first follower deserves just as much recognition as the visionary leading the charge.

Are you the former or the latter? It doesn’t matter—because early following, too, is leading, and we need all the lights in the sky that we can get.

Ride the Schoolbus

The first train connection from my parents’ house to a larger city where I transfer runs through the middle of nowhere. The second stop is a town with a school. Often, many kids get on the tiny, two-wagon train. So for the next 40 minutes, I’ll sit there, tucked away quietly between three dozen high schoolers, listening to their laughter and conversations. I always learn something.

Yesterday, some of them tried to prank strangers on the phone. They called people and reminded them of the elderly stripper they “had ordered,” usually to hang up in giggles after the first sentence. I also overheard someone suggesting McDonald’s now did a “Dubai burger” based on the currently-everywhere chocolate—but as it turns out, that, too, was a hoax.

Riding the school train makes me feel old, but it also reminds me to stay young. It’s a window into the minds of the young. What are they thinking about? What moves them? What do they already know that I should probably be aware of?

Every now and then, ride the schoolbus—it’ll keep you grounded, curious, and in sync with the beat of the world.

Relevant Notifications

When the Pokémon hype gets real, trying to buy new card sets throws me right back to the 90s. Except instead of driving to a store on release day, hoping to get some product, I’m checking various Discord servers and online shops ten times a day. “Is it live yet?” Naturally, I often end up missing the five-minute window in which listings go up and immediately sell out.

“Why don’t you just have your phone ping you?” you might say. For one, there’d be plenty more notifications than I’d actually want or need. And for another, most of those extra pings would seriously derail my day. It’s a tough needle to thread.

When you can be notified of everything instantly, the consequence of saying yes is constant overwhelm. That’s why I turned off all notifications on my phone years ago. Unless I unlock it and open certain apps on purpose, I won’t see anything. But when there are scenarios where you’d want to know about just the right topic at just the right time, you’ll also miss out.

You’d think we’d have this figured out by now. That technology would be smart enough to tell you only about certain keywords being mentioned in certain channels. I think it is—but it’s not in companies’ best interest to allow you to do this at scale. Who’d be glued to their screen consuming ads if everyone could just filter it all down to the minimum? So custom work is needed. You either do it, or you go back to the 90s. Same slow, manual process, slightly different modalities.

The world spins slower than we think. New problems are usually old ones in a different dress. Let’s see when we get relevant notifications.