When the thought of writing pops up, don’t wait for your mind to come up with excuses. Write.
When you want to go for a run, run.
When you think of someone, let them know.
You may not want to act on all your first impulses.
But deep down, you know which ones are good for you.
And you don’t want to second-guess those.
You’re dissatisfied with your social life, but not so much that you feel terribly lonely – so you don’t change anything.
You’re dissatisfied with your physical fitness, but not so much that you’re in pain every day – so you put up with slow deterioration.
You’re dissatisfied with your current job, but not so much that you’re dragging yourself to work – so you put up with unfulfilling days.
Being satisfied with some areas of your life is good.
Being intensely dissatisfied with some areas of your life is fine, too – because that unhappiness can be the leverage you need to make a change.
But comfortable dissatisfaction – that’s the zone where dreams and happiness go to die. And boy, have I spent a lot of time there.
So I hope you are satisfied with your life, my friend.
And if not, I hope you’re at least intensely dissatisfied.
Let that be the fuel you need to take action to change.
Actions overrule thoughts, and sometimes the best creative act – and the one requiring the most discipline – is doing nothing.
Because when you slow down your pace, suddenly you realize: there’s space.
There’s space for the thoughts and feelings you were so afraid to face.
There’s space to redirect the energy you’ve misplaced.
There’s space to rediscover everything that escaped your gaze while you were engaged in an endless rat race.
There’s space for you to remember
that before you learned not to listen
and constant distraction erased every trace
of the insights you so desperately chase
there was a place of stillness
a warm embrace
where all the answers were right there, in your face
Only when you’ve slowed down your mind’s pace
you realize
you were never out of place
you were navigating a self-inflicted maze
with only one way out:
Make space.
I can believe I must understand the theory before I engage in practice, or I can believe that theory makes more sense when it explains my practice.
Theory and practice are partners, and more often than not, it should be practice that leads the dance.
Writing is hard – but I’d love to be a writer, so I write.
Painting is hard – and I wouldn’t love being a painter, so I don’t paint.
Some things are worth the struggle and sacrifice for me – and maybe not for you.
Some things are worth the struggle and sacrifice for you – and maybe not for me.
Knowledge transfer always implies time collapse. Because learning an insight from someone else usually takes less long than figuring it out yourself.
Take books. The writer usually spent considerable time researching and distilling the topic and coming to good insights (time I might not be able to dedicate).
Thanks to that writer, I can now consume that knowledge in, say 6-12 hours of reading the book. A considerable time collapse…
But when does time collapse go to far?
Can I read a 1-page summary of that book and truly say I grasp the topic?
When your brain gets space to breathe, knowledge grows and nuance shows. It needs time and repeated exposure to absorb information, make connections, and discover new insights.
So a one-page summary isn’t necessarily too shallow… On the contrary: it collapses time so much that information becomes very dense.
What with the evolution towards short-form online content? The primary purpose of TikTok videos and Instagram reels might be to entertain, but the trend is clear and spills over into education, our attention span, and knowledge transfer: shorter, more shallow, yet more dense.
Too little time collapse and we can’t make progress.
Too much time collapse and knowledge collapses with it.
Language helps us describe the world we perceive. Yet in doing so, it closes our eyes, our ears, our touch, and our heart to the parts of the world we don’t have words for.
Every language is a lens on a felt reality within and around us – both clarifying and categorizing the world, and limiting it by the words it has available.
Learning more languages gives you new lenses – and a richer sense of reality.
But just like the structure of our ears limit the sounds we can hear, and the structure of our eyes limit colors we can see, the structure of any language somehow limits our felt experience of the world.
How do we re-access memories, emotions, hidden away in a long-forgotten language?
How do we re-learn to listen to the voices of the wordless world speaking to our animal self… the voices that once upon a time, before verbal language emerged, were all we had?
there’s an eternal song
drowned out by the confines of my mother tongue
a wordless melody that once made sense
until our brain started blurring it with a lens
narrowing it down
neglecting its nuances through verbs and nounswith all its might language wants us to abide
Lukas Van Vyve
but the wordless world it tries to hide
will forever be inside
