There are men who say they desire freedom, but what they desire is merely a larger cage with softer walls.
They call it freedom because no one locks the door.
They wake when they wish, eat what they wish, speak to whom they wish—and yet, at every hour, they consult the little oracle in their pocket to discover what they ought to desire next.
This is the great trick of our age: we have abolished many masters only to become obedient to recommendations.
And perhaps this is why the modern man is so tired. Not because he works too much, but because he is forever being told what to want.
He does not choose the book; the algorithm chooses it.
He does not discover the music; the playlist discovers him.
He does not even become bored properly. The moment boredom approaches, he reaches for the glowing rectangle and murders it.
Yet boredom was once the beginning of thought.
A man sitting alone with nothing to consume may, after sufficient suffering, be forced to produce something.
A thought.
A question.
A desire that is actually his own.
This is why I have become suspicious of convenience. Convenience is not evil. No—evil would be too simple a word. Convenience is far more dangerous because it arrives smiling. It saves you five minutes here, ten minutes there, until one day you discover that it has also saved you the trouble of deciding who you are.
Still, there are conveniences worth keeping.
For example, I recently began using a particular notebook—not because some cheerful young man in a sponsored segment told me that it would “change my life,” but because I found that writing in it was considerably less irritating than writing on loose scraps of paper that inevitably vanished into the abyss beneath my desk.
It is called the Blackwing notebook.
And yes, I realise the absurdity.
Here I am, condemning the modern cult of consumption while praising stationery.
But perhaps hypocrisy begins precisely where self-knowledge ends.
I do not pretend the notebook makes me profound. It merely gives my profound thoughts somewhere respectable to die.
And perhaps that is enough.
For the philosopher does not require better tools in order to think.
He requires only tools that do not insult him while he does it.
Now, where were we?
Ah yes.
Freedom.
The first freedom is not freedom from chains.
It is freedom from the voice that tells you what to desire when the room becomes quiet.
Nietzsche