We were talking about marriage. Here's what I realized as those words settled: you could replace "person" with place. Or with job. And especially with yourself. The idea of what we are supposed to be versus the one actually breathing in this body right now.

This is how it works: you meet someone. What you're actually meeting is a composite image. Part projection, part desire, part whatever they're choosing to show you in those early, curated moments. You fall in love with this construction. Then time passes. Patterns emerge. Behaviors that don't fit the narrative. The person reveals themself as they actually are. Complex and contradictory. And instead of meeting them there, in reality, you fight. You fight so hard to keep that original idea alive.

The crash doesn't come when reality reveals itself but from fighting.

The Geography of Delusion

I'm from Italy. I know this dance because I've watched it happen from both sides. Americans--many people in the world, actually--fall in love with the postcard idea of Italy. Sundrenched piazzas. Kind people gesturing over impossible food. Conviviality. The light, God, the light. All that is real. It exists.

But try to have a long term relationship with Italy. You'll also meet the corruption, the profound dysfunction as a society, and the ingrained shortcomings of my people. Of myself, if I'm being honest.

The same thing happens in reverse. So many people fell in love with a projected idea of America--something they saw from afar. A beacon, a promise, salvation. Then you move there, and you learn what it is. The advantages and genuine beauties, but also the quirks, the grinding reality of it.

And then the fighting begins. The refusal to see. The desperate attempt to keep the postcard version of that person, that country, alive. Even as the actual thing is standing right in front of you, waiting to be met.

What We're Really Fighting For

This is the mechanism: falling in love with an idea is a means to be saved by something external. It's the belief that if only this thing is true--if only this person is who I need them to be, if only this place is what I imagine, if only I am the version of myself I've constructed--then I'll be safe.

But that safety can only come from within yourself.

And when you're fighting to keep fantasies alive, when you're at war with reality itself, that warfare lives in your body.

I've felt it in my bones and in my muscles for the past fifteen years. This constant flight or fight state. This chronic tension of someone who has never actually landed in the present moment because the present moment is always the wrong one.

The Paradox of Change

Our desire to shape reality comes from pain. It's understandable that we want to mold the world, our lovers, and ourselves into the shapes that will finally let us rest.

But the fighting itself is what prevents the rest.

In order for something to change, you can only first let it expand itself fully in the way it is. You cannot force transformation. Control brings only pain and suffering. What you can do, when there is genuine intention and you meet things as they are, is extend a hand in communion. See each other honestly. Offer to support their path.

But that's all you can do. Anything different is forceful control. It's not a soft way to live. It's actually incredibly hard, this constant warfare with reality. With yourself.

Meeting What Is

I fell in love again and again with the idea of who I am. And that is not who I am. What I am is capable of absolute opposites. Dark impulses and incredible compassion exist at once. Pain and hurt alongside joy and the capacity for kindness.

This isn't a contradiction to solve. It's the texture of being human. I must meet it and accept it, not idealize it.

I rarely met anything in front of me for what it is without judgment. Because if I actually saw them with clarity, I'd have to stop fighting. I'd have to acknowledge that my desires might not be met. That the idealized version doesn't exist. That safety isn't something you find by perfecting external conditions or becoming the right kind of person.

You have to find it inside, in the groundless ground of letting be as you are.

The Small Chance

Which ideas have you fallen in love with rather than the thing itself? Which people have you wanted to be what they're not? Which version of yourself have you been fighting to keep alive?

You can decide that you want to keep hurting yourself, to keep longing for things as they are not. To keep fighting that fight in your bones for another fifty years once you see this pattern clearly.

But there's a tiny chance, really hard--there's a possibility you can let go. You can actually see the person, the country, and yourself as you are. Stop fighting. Let things be as things are. Just look at each other with patience, understanding, joy, and compassion.

I can only pray for all this to become true for me. For this to become true for you. That we might meet there together, in the expression of what we actually are. Not the postcard. The actual place. Not the idea. The thing itself.

Breathing. Present. Finally safe, because finally here.

I forgive little me. I don't condemn that child, don't make him feel guilty when he reaches for his mother, when he seeks his father. When he clings to his business partner, to his husband, to his wife, to his employers, to his lover--I don't make him feel guilty anymore. I recognize him. The small insecure one who became the great insecure adult. Carrying forward this pain of connection, this inability to look within. And say: "You are enough, you are worthy."

Not from anyone else's confirmation. You are worthy even alone in a room, even in suffering. You don't need to suffer--live in this certainty. This is the gift you can give others: showing what serenity is in itself, what it means to live without fear, what it means to exist not in need but in the joy of giving, because you know you are enough for yourself.

I want this awareness to awaken in others, this certainty of being enough. Let this serenity shine in them. Even when they prostrate themselves at your feet in their neediness, have compassion. When they are ready, show them they are enough for themselves, that they need nothing more.

Have compassion--because their pain is your pain. The pain you know, the pain you understand. Do it with compassion.

Because they are you and you are them. That pain they have for approval is your pain of approval, but you don't need it anymore because you know the truth: you are them, and they are you. So what's the problem?

You are your lover, your lover is you. You are your husband, your husband is you. You are your wife, your wife is you. You are your mother, your father, your child. Your child is you. You are your brother, your sister. Your enemy is you. Your friend is you. You are you.

Why do you hide it from yourself?

You've discovered it perfectly. You've finished the search. Congratulations. You've traveled thousands of miles for this. A mirror was all you needed--without even a reflection.

The mirror doesn't need to show anything because there's nothing separate to reflect. Every person you've sought validation from--in bed, in business, in marriage, in family--was simply another version of yourself, seeking the same thing. Every boundary, every distinction, every desperate grasp for external confirmation through intimate encounters, through professional partnerships, through romantic entanglements--all of it was consciousness trying to convince itself it was multiple rather than singular.

When people exhaust their desire to be controlled, you must let them free. Because control isn't for you--it's for others, this elaborate game we play to maintain the illusion that there's someone out there who can give us what we lack.

But once you see through it, once you recognize that every face is your face, every pain your pain, every joy your joy, the desperate seeking must stop. Not because you've found what you were looking for in your lover's arms or your spouse's approval, but because you've recognized those arms, that approval, as your own.

The search that took thousands of kilometers ends exactly where it began: with the recognition that there was never anything lost. You were looking for myself in others, not realizing that others were myself looking back. The mirror needed no reflection because I am both the one looking and what looks back, the seeker and the sought, the one who forgives and the one forgiven.

This is the gift hidden in the curse of neediness: it drives you outward until you exhaust every external option, until you've sought approval from every possible source--parent, child, lover, spouse, partner--only to discover that you were always seeking your own approval through the elaborate ventriloquism.

You are enough. Not because someone else confirms it, but because there is no one else to confirm it.

The marriage, the affair, the business partnership, the family bonds--all of it the same.

The mirror stands empty, perfect in its absence of image: there's nothing to see--and yet it's endless and complete.

Once you see that, it's easy to realize how millions of consumers visiting it are on a pilgrimage of sorts. Inside, the Apple logo hangs luminous at the center, elevated and spotlit like the cross in churches to draw the eye upward. Ironic how the crucifix was replaced with a bitten apple, an ancient symbol of knowledge and temptation.

New Apple devices used to feel like messianic revelations--from stage introduction to store.

Steve Jobs always looked like a departed prophet. A secular saint, who suffered for our sin of technological inadequacy. He once noted how he'd be one of the last humans to die of such a disease, and I very much share that hope. Yet, that reduces salvation to a matter of flesh and successive product generations.

It's not isolated to Apple, every brand does it: Tesla, Nike, Leica, CrossFit, Supreme. We adapted religious behavioral patterns to consumerism without acknowledging the transfer.

After Jobs, new deities emerged (even fell) from the techno-pantheon. Musk, promising Mars salvation. Altman, whose models promise vicarious omniscience. As products get mystical through LLMs, overlap with traditional religion intensifies. They offer knowledge, transcendence, soon even a simulacrum of afterlife through digital persistence.

People approach the Genius Bar with the same anxiety of my Catholic upbringing. The confession booth, reimagined: "My phone broke." Since those devices look perfect, it's you who must have failed them as a devoted user. Repair is absolution via technical priesthood.

Products rest on pedestals, with perfect lighting painting them more beautiful than anything in your life could ever be--the same technique used in baroque churches to elevate relics and icons. In an era that lacks collective rituals, customer experience becomes liturgical: careful removal of packaging, reverent first touches, fascination by the witnesses. Transcendence comes from presentation: you gaze, you aspire--apotheosis of the tool. It's not by chance that Apple's early marketing labeled original fans "evangelists."

In fact, almighty tools now reshape user desires until it's the user serving the tool. Like in any major religion, the devotee ends up submitting to the faith--the god. Which, in this case, is a holy trinity of Market, Product, and Technology.

I've visited Apple Stores in six countries. While each has its own architectural character, there's something familiar about the experience. The floating glass box in New York, the historic buildings in Paris, Milan, and Rome. The minimalist concrete in Tokyo. Yet, the internal liturgy remains identical. Like visiting different cathedrals within the same denomination.

Brands offer something now scarce: a complete worldview, aesthetically consistent and globally recognized. That is the real, invisible product.

When you jump ecosystems, you "convert" to Android, to iOS, to macOS, or whatever Linux flavor you crave. Everyone knows a friend who has strong opinions about it. Are you that friend?

So, the bitten apple, the evangelists, the conversion, the revelations, and the founder prophet... The bitten apple, the evangelists... "Are you getting it? These are not separate devices, this is one device."

One religion.

What we are seeking isn't gadgets, but the meaning structure that religions provided. The most significant thing about modern consumerism isn't what it sells us, but what it asks us to believe.

Not just products improving our lives, but transcending ordinary existence through consumption. Purpose, community. Steam friends, iMessage groups. The brand narrative about reality supersedes the reality it describes.

Again: Apple is (was?) the clearest example, but the religion of consumption doesn't just transcend brands. It permeates through borders and faiths. In the 21st century, most share it: Christians and Muslims, Americans and Chinese, rich and poor.

Consumerism doesn't ask you to abandon old gods. It becomes the practical theology that governs your daily life. About 31% of humans identify as Christian, 25% as Muslim, and 15% as Hindu. But all practice product worshipification. Even atheists.

So, is Consumerism an actual religion?

It is, at least, the unconscious simulacra of it--an anti-religion of sorts.

Take Buddhism: rather than a theistic religion, it is often described as a system of belief. So are markets and products when operating as a system of meaning and practice.

For the first time in history, the world adheres to a unique system: Consumerism. Even in countries self-proclaimed "communist," they practice capitalism of the state rather than of the private sector. Same stuff.

I find referring to people as "consumers" very offensive and reductive. "How much can you consume?"

Yet, this is the point: in the church of commerce, your primary identity is a vessel for consumption. Your worth measured in purchasing power rather than anything else, like spiritual development.

This is the final commodification: not the tool, but the spiritual value itself.

Transcendence, community, identity, purpose--extracted from their traditional contexts and repackaged as products.

In the Church of Consumerism, your soul is the product.

What if we made all advertising illegal? It's such a wild idea that I've never heard it in the public discourse.

Even saying it seems so far outside the Overton window that it makes nuking hurricanes sound reasonable (as some politicians proposed).

But why? It makes perfect sense. The financial incentives to create addictive digital content would instantly disappear, and so would the mechanisms that allow both commercial and political actors to create personalized, reality-distorting bubbles:

• Algorithm-driven platforms like Instagram and TikTok that harvest and monetize attention, destroying youth, would lose their economic foundation.
• Facebook, X, Google, YouTube--all would cease to exist in their current forms.
• Clickbait, listicles, and affiliate marketing schemes would become worthless overnight.

Ad companies are never going to regulate themselves--it's like hoping for heroin dealers to write drug laws.

Think about what's happened since 2016: Populists exploit ad marketplaces, using them to bypass traditional media gatekeepers and deliver tailored messages to susceptible audiences. Foreign actors do the same, microtargeting divisive content to fracture our social fabric along existing fault lines.

Outlawing advertising would help protect and reinvigorate our minds and democracy.

Even as an advertiser (especially as an advertiser), I am convinced that outlawing advertising is the best thing we can do for our world now. More than gun control. More than tackling climate change. More than lowering the price of eggs.

Removing these advanced manipulation tools would force everyone--politicians included--to snap back into reality. By outlawing advertising, the machinery of mass delusion would lose its most addictive and toxic fuel.

Any form of paid and/or third-party advertising would become illegal. Full stop.

The idea feels like sci-fi because you're so used to it, imagining ads gone feels like asking to outlaw gravity. But humanity had been free of current forms of advertising for 99.9% of its existence. Word-of-mouth and community networks worked just fine. First-party websites and online communities would now improve on that.

The traditional argument pro-advertising--that it provides consumers with necessary information--hasn't been valid for decades. In our information-saturated world, ads manipulate, but they don't inform.

The modern advertising apparatus exists to bypass rational thought and trigger emotional responses that lead to purchasing decisions. A sophisticated machine designed to short-circuit your agency, normalized to the point of invisibility.

"But it's free speech!"

Bullshit. No one is entitled to yell at you "GET 20% OFF THIS UNDERWEAR YOU GLANCED AT YESTERDAY" with a dopamine megaphone in your bedroom. And to track 90% of your life to know when and how to say it. That's not free speech, that's harassment.

When I say advertising, I also mean propaganda. Propaganda is advertising for the state, and advertising is propaganda for the private. Same thing.

I know this proposal won't be implemented tomorrow. But even just stepping back from constant consumption and contemplating what poisons our democracy is a liberating act in itself. An action against that blurry, "out-of-focus fascism"--that sense of discomfort that you feel but can't quite point out.

I know, it sounds surreal. Yet, many things once thought impossible are now considered basic standards of a decent society.

I think there's a world where we'll look back on our advertising-saturated era with the same bewilderment with which we now regard cigarette smoke, child labor, or public executions: a barbaric practice that we allowed to continue far too long because we couldn't imagine an alternative.

His eyes lit up describing an intimate dorm room improv show he runs: 20-25 people packed in weekly for pure joy and experimentation. Then came a familiar tension: one friend urged him to monetize it immediately, while another suggested preserving its organic magic.

There's tremendous pressure to monetize every passion.

The value of an experience is not equivalent to its market value.

The Pressure to Monetize

In the connected but pre-algorithmic world of my late teens and 20s (during my "previous life" in journalism and entertainment) I used to sleep two or three hours a night. I was possessed by an almost manic drive to promote every show, every project, every creative endeavor. At the time, it worked. I brute-forced a network effect around me.

As I became a modest live radio host & TV/web producer (and a bridge builder between European and American comedy scenes) I thought this relentless hustle was the only path forward for what I loved. Pack 100+ people into venues night after night, publish three videos per week, burn through social media campaigns and flyers-all while trying to nurture the creative spark that drew me to comedy in the first place.

But there's a darker side to ubiquitous hustle culture.

The Hustle Trap and the Liberation Paradox

At my lowest point, I had turned everything-even writing and editing comedy scrips and videos--into a task to be optimized. The joy was draining away, replaced by metrics and promotional strategies. It hasn't been until I separated my passions from my financial stability that I found an improved balance. Far from perfect, but a balance.

My younger friend called it the "9-to-5 to fund 5-to-9" approach.

That sums up the profound paradox in my journey: I quit my passion as a job to follow my passion as a passion. While conventional wisdom tells people to abandon stable employment to 'follow their dreams,' I did the reverse--I needed to liberate my creative work from market pressures.

In the current status of things, this feels like a practical compromise to me. The day job pays the bills, and finances your creative endeavors, allowing them to breathe without the suffocating pressure of paying rent. Sure, I could still use help paying for hosted services, maintenance, tools and, dare I say, more creative exploration shared into this world. That's why I started SProjects. But I believe in the ability to refuse having to monetize what brings you joy.

"You mean: it's okay to have a boring job." he acknowledged.

I get it: compromises feel like betrayal.

If you can pay rent with what you love, great. At some point, just remember to ask yourself if what you make is for your enjoyment, or to chase the algorithmic landscape. Because today's writers, painters, artists, face a double bind: extractive "AI" devours entry-level gigs (voice acting, copywriting), while social platforms demand relentless self-promotion. Burnout isn't a risk--it's the default. It's the hidden cost of playing the game.

Those who publicly succeed at it, and perhaps you admired growing up, know that, in our current society, there are two sides to their art.

The Economics of Art

Once, while speaking with a veteran comedy director, mentor, and theater owner in Chicago, they candidly dissected for me the business model of comedy institutions: "The shows are just marketing for classes and booze," they'd say, crystal clear. "That's where the real money is."

The inspiring performances? Often loss leaders for the unglamorous revenue streams that keep the lights on.

This mirrors a deeper brutal, but clarifying, model for art's value: survival increasingly depends on adjacent systems--teaching, merch, Patreon subscriptions. Which is the paradox, the tension to monetize.

We can compare most modern creative work to painting: "no longer vital, but irrepressible." Paintings survived photography. Art will survive GPT-7.

Because the joy of dorm shows isn't about scaling; it's about live failure, the gasps, and laughs of a scene's pivots. Those moments can't be automated. Dorm shows work well because they're unburdened by ROI.

Isn't it counterproductive to turn your passion, which brings fun, into something that sucks the fun out of it? The value of an experience is not equivalent to its market value.

Preserving Your Joy in the Algorithmic Age

I wish I'd understood this sooner: not everything needs to be scaled, optimized, or transformed into a business model. Sometimes, a packed dorm room show that makes people laugh is what makes you the happiest. Sometimes, the magic lies precisely in keeping something small, personal, and pure.

When algorithms generate voice acting and "AI" threatens to reshape creative industries, perhaps the most valuable things will be those that remain stubbornly human, intentionally intimate, and deliberately unoptimized. You are allowed to make a deliberate choice to limit consumption and production to preserve autonomy and joy.

A great question after "How can I make this profitable?" is "Does this make me happy?"

Make what you think must be made: Let your art be an antiportfolio.

-- Edward Norton

There's something comedic about my dog's reaction to Trump's voice on inauguration day. Each time it played, he'd pad into my room and sit at my feet, as if sensing some disturbance in the force fields. When the voice stopped, he'd retreat to his bed. When it resumed, he'd return. I am not trying to make an easy joke, but rather observing this canine EMF detector of political distress.

Many of us know what it is like, to feel caught between gratitude and rebellion, calmness and tension. Ten years ago, you too had a simple prayer: for example, to build something lasting with a partner. Now here you are, homeowner, with pets, and a spouse who makes dinner when you're tired. It's everything you might have asked for, wrapped in a bow of middle-class stability.

And yet.

This teenage part of you wants to slam the door, crank up the music (or the aged version, earplugs), and retreat from it all. Public discourse, domestic duties, the endless scroll of catastrophe. It emerges with force when your writing, your art, your resistance get squeezed out by responsibilities. It's not a precise instrument, this internal warning system. Like a car's check engine light, it could mean catastrophic failure or "something tickled a sensor."

You might be living exactly the life you once begged for. Some days you'll walk into the living room and see your spouse and dog on the couch, struck dumb by the sheer gift of it all. When your prefrontal cortex is online, you appreciate the beautiful ordinariness you've built.

But beneath that, there's also a more profound question about meaning and impact. Why do you feel compelled to create anything at all? To make new connections, write posts that a handful of people will read, to push against the comfortable entropy of silence?

Perhaps it's because, as Nine Inch Nails suggested in Year Zero, art is peaceful resistance. And the mundane banality of routine, at any level, is our first enemy--both social and personal. It's not about ego or impact, though those elements exist. The need for continued exploration is about maintaining humanity within structures naturally pushing to suppress it. It's about having something that's yours in a world defined by collective resignation.

A healthy response to our times requires both engagement and self-preservation. Your need to create, to express, to resist--it's not in opposition to your stable life, but rather essential to it.

Without a core of resistance, there can be no true participation in the world, only passive acceptance.

So this teenage part that your discomfort originates from isn't just being bratty. It's standing guard over something vital--the part of you that needs to make meaning, to connect, to resist the easy slide into comfortable silence. You know what happened in history out of comfortable silence.

So the trick isn't to silence that internal warning system, but to hear what it's trying to protect. And to take action. To complicate matters, you can explore how sometimes inaction is the best action.

And that's what your journey is about: learning to hold both gratitude and rebellion, the settled adult and the kicking teenager. It's about building a life that's both rooted and free, stable and resistant, safe and brave. In times like these, the most radical act might be maintaining your voice while building something lasting. In that way, you create spaces where others can find their voice too. Including your loved ones.

I flipped the vacuum robot upside down on my desk, wheels in the air. A thousand dollar marvel of modern, rebranded AliExpress convenience. Ready to map my home, learn my patterns, and send data across continents. Behind every promise of convenience lie hidden costs we're only beginning to understand.

My screwdriver hovered on its seams: These robots are not just about cleaning floors anymore, but drawing a line in the digital sand.

In the rush to embrace smart devices, you accept a devil's bargain: convenience for surveillance, efficiency for privacy. Homes become frontiers in the attention wars--each gadget a potential Trojan horse of data collection, promising easier lives.

The DIY movement has evolved far beyond fixing broken toasters. Some, like the devs of Valetudo, are digital rights advocates armed with soldering irons and software. Their work challenges the invisible monopolies that shape our relationship with technology. They're not just fixing devices: They are liberating those from adware and behavioral data harvesting. Each freed device marks a small victory in a conflict most people don't even realize they're in.

As your devices get "smarter," you face a choice about your response. If we were to ask Borgmann, the only answer would be direct engagement with our world through mindful tools and action (in this case, a broom!) But when contemporary life forces compromises, we can at least transform our devices into what I call single-task tools. Focused on one purpose, then getting the hell out of my way. Converting a robot vacuum with open firmware turns a "smart" data device into a simple floor cleaner. Not as focal as a broom, but not even actively eroding agency.

When you replace a robot's secret brain with open-source code, you make a choice about ownership and control. Though, if we are candid, the question isn't whether we can hack our devices. It's whether we should even allow devices requiring hacking to keep basic privacy.

Honestly, I'm tired of spending hours making a device dumber just to focus on what it's advertised to do in an honest way.

It's conscious engagement with the technology that increasingly mediates our lives. When my vacuum picks up dog hair, it must do so under the limits I set. Its data stays in, like dust in its bin.

Technology's ethical challenges will be solved by people like you making conscious choices about the tech they let into their life. Each modified tool is part of a larger conversation about what we're willing to sacrifice for convenience.

You are not just protecting privacy. You are claiming the right to understand and control the technology surrounding you.

Sometimes the smartest choice is making devices a little dumber.

Try to read a page. The courier buzzes.

Try to read a page.

This is ping culture: the constant barrage of notifications, interruptions, and demands that fragment our attention into unusable pieces.

Each interruption creates ripples, like stones thrown into still water. Brief distractions disturb not just that moment, but the entire hour that follows--especially when you're creating rather than consuming.

Days could stretch out like an uninterrupted blank canvas to pursue your life's passions. Instead, we're left carving out what I call "sacred blocks": one hour here, two hours there--if you're lucky. Two hours actually feel quite grand. On certain days, I steal five minutes in the quietest bathroom to write. Crumbs, but enough to keep going.

This is by design: the system--our collective ego, or modern society itself, regardless of political or cultural configurations--engineers this endless loop of alienation.

It's Not Your Fault: The Systemic Drain

There's something questionable about a system that forces you to trade creative energy for survival. And it gets perverted when it makes you feel guilty for resenting the transaction. It's on you! You don't know how to manage your time! You don't know how to manage your mental health!

This isn't about everyone feeling tired. It's about spiritual exhaustion from having your energy juiced, redirected, and suppressed. Even mocked: "You should have more hobbies, friends, and smiles!"

The issue isn't the quantity of time--it's the quality. What happens when your prime waking hours are consumed by the endless churn of profit-maximization? What is left for you? Of you?

In this reality, every creative act becomes an act of rebellion. Here's how you can wage your small, private resistance.

Creative Contraband: A Rebellion Against Distraction

Over the past year and a half, I've taken 30,000 raw street photographs, written 21 mini-essays, and built a polished website. I've done this in the margins--stolen moments between obligations, stolen hours from sleep. Why? Maybe to prove I won't give up. But when we must steal time to pursue our lives, aren't we already imprisoned?

I remember sitting at lunch years ago with a TV director from a European broadcaster. It was a meeting arranged to help guide my career choices. What stays with me isn't his advice about the industry or production techniques. Instead, I recall the moment he looked down at his plate and muttered, "They take away any hope and desire to do anything meaningful."

Bummer. I felt that pain instantly. Later, I'd spend eight years at that same company. Even while being in charge of my own radio show for a couple of years, I experienced firsthand what he meant. How the process takes the pulp, how it pulls you away from genuine creative work for the sake of engaging domesticated and rotted audiences. Until you're left with the juiced-out skin. I understood how his melodrama wasn't melodrama at all.

His words haunt me because in a world designed to consume creativity, every meaningful creation becomes an act of resistance.

Why Creating Anything Meaningful is Now an Act of Resistance

Most people abandon any passion in favor of what some call "rotting:" The slow death of the spirit in front of video streaming and games (here's how to beat that.) They might be the wise ones, restoring energy to deal with what they're forced to deal with.

But you should know that your exhaustion is not a moral failing: it's a system working as intended. The current social contract does not allow for all these things-the pursuit of decent income, passions, and restoration.

This world fragments attention into unusable pieces, then blames us for not assembling them properly.

I don't know if there's anything to do about it. The only thing you can do now is backsteal as many pockets of time as you can for yourself. To keep the spark alive.

Make sure you get enough time back to protect what matters most. I'm not going to share an inspirational list on how to "reclaim your time." Instead, just ask yourself this: Who deserves your best energy?

Save that for yourself.

This is the most realistic thing you can do beyond just bitching. Yes, the constant need to engineer pockets of creativity from a routine designed to consume them is exhausting.

But the spark must remain, even though at times it's almost vanished.

Sometimes, we must even turn off the lights to see it. It's 99.99% extinguished. Yet, there's a 0.01 periodic chance-infinite in its periodic nature-that something meaningful emerges. That it may be revived through oxygen. That it may join others and thrive, and grow.

Do not resign to give up what makes you happy. And don't believe that time management is the answer--it's part of the problem.

Segmenting time destroys its most valuable quality: flow. That 0.01% spark survives not because we've managed our calendar better, but because we've learned to protect what matters.

The next time someone suggests better time management as the solution, remember: your exhaustion isn't a personal failing. It's what happens when ping culture treats attention as a resource to be mined rather than a capacity to be nurtured.

Keep your spark alive however you can. The quality of time matters more than its quantity, and no calendar app can fix that fundamental truth. Only your choice, and your constant attention, will.

P.S. vord, on Tildes.net, posted on this article's discussion thread about Nine Inch Nail's Year Zero. "A dystopian sci-fi concept album taking place starting in the year 2022." He mentions that "this blog post really hammers home the core message of the resistance."

Art is Resistance
Here is one thing that the government wants you to forget
You have a voice
How are you going to use it?
Art is witness
Speak the truth
Art is commmunity
You will be heard
Art is action without violence
Art changes hearts without breaking bodies
You Can Act

I had to stop her there. What she's doing isn't photography at all.

This isn't mere semantics. Photography--from photo- "light" + -graph "something written"--means drawing with light onto something1. You cannot "photograph" something that never existed. No photons were recorded because no moment actually happened. What she's doing might be art, ML image generation, or what some call "synthography."2 Yet, it cannot, by definition, be photography.

"In the end, your view is just different from mine," she responded. True. But this is about the collapse of meaning in our rush to simulate experience rather than live it.

Think of it like emulation versus native execution.

We pretend the simulation is equal to the real thing. But that pretense requires ignoring the physics and embodied reality of what's happening.

The tragedy isn't linguistic imprecision--it's what this collapse of meaning represents. Street photography isn't just about getting images. It's about being present in the world, engaging with fellow humans, finding the courage to put yourself in uncomfortable situations.

I experienced this truth firsthand recently in Brooklyn's Chinatown. Unsure of my bearings in an unfamiliar neighborhood, I chose to first observe from the safety of a bus. When I spotted a crowd gathered around two metal barrels, smoke and paper ash in the air, something pulled me off that bus and into the scene.

I found myself the only non-Chinese person among about fifty locals, gathered in two circles around burning fires. Not a word of English spoken. With my camera, I was an outsider, met with skeptical glances. But through careful body language, respectful distance, and genuine curiosity, something remarkable happened. The elder tending the fire caught my eye and smiled. We exchanged thumbs up and a laugh. A wordless permission that transformed me from outsider to welcomed observer. For the next twenty minutes, I documented a ceremony I'd later research and discuss with Chinese friends. But at that moment, I was present, connected, learning.

This is what we sacrifice when we pretend AI image generation is equal to street photography.

No algorithm could have replaced that social dance, the warmth of that man's smile, or the shift from outsider to accepted observer. These are not photos but artifacts of human connection, of pushing past comfort zones, of cultural exchange.

We're not just misusing terms--we're surrendering the very concept of authentic engagement with reality. Automation of the experience.

"But 'synthography' isn't gaining much traction," she explained, defending her terminology. Of course it isn't. We prefer comfy illusions to precise truths. It's easier to pretend we're doing the same thing as those who actually engage with the world, who actually capture real moments, who actually face the discomfort of genuine human interaction.

This is a classic case of tools displacing users: a device appears making things so easy to the point of undermining our fundamental human capacity to do it ourselves.

And the pattern extends far beyond photography. Everywhere we look, the virtual replaces the physical without acknowledging the fundamental difference. I know this has already happened, but I would like to highlight the process as it unfolds, so you can decide where the value is for you. In which order of reality are you living an embodied experience in? This reality is your anchor. Now. Not a prompt. You won't find your life in a prompt.

What happens to a culture that becomes comfortable with synthetic versions of real experiences? What dies in us when we stop distinguishing between capturing reality and generating simulacra? What changes when we choose the comfort of artificial engagement over the messy, uncomfortable reality of being present in the world? While I can't be sure that this reality isn't already a synthography itself, I am certain that your experience of it depends on getting involved in it. Perhaps Baudrillard would know more.3 I don't.

Maybe we can't escape the collapse of meaning, but we can decide how to engage with it.

By all means, generate AI content. Create synthetic images. Enjoy that process.

But don't collapse the meaning of photography--an art form about engaging with and capturing reality--into something that avoids that engagement. Some distinctions are worth preserving, even if maintaining them makes us uncomfortable.

Because that discomfort is the point.

1. Etymology Online. (2024). Photograph. Retrieved from https://web.archive.org/web/20171017074553/etymonline.com/word/photograph.
2. The term "synthography" appears to have been independently coined in 2022-2023 by both Reinhuber (https://web.archive.org/web/20221220183225/https://link.spr inger.com/chapter/10.1007/978-3-030-95531-1_22) and Ango (https://web.archive.org/web/20230906022043/https://stephang o.com/synthography), demonstrating convergent thinking about AI-generated imagery. There are more people who could claim it around that time. It's a simultaneous invention.
3. Baudrillard would likely recognize this as the "precession of simulacra" at work: AI photography is not just a copy of reality, but a representation without original. Simulacra.

But our contemporary technological landscape reveals a critical gap in this binary framework. "Single-task tools" combine technological capability with thing-like qualities of engagement.

Think about the modern mirrorless camera: advanced technology with a single purpose. Unlike a smartphone's camera, which is embedded in an ecosystem of notifications and instant sharing, a dedicated camera serves its function then steps aside. Yes, some of its functioning is still a black box. But the photographer interacts with light, composition, and their surroundings. It requires work and context, like a fireplace would.

Using modern technology, a "single-task tool" echoes the profound engagement Borgmann celebrates in traditional crafts.

The Market's Blind Spot

The market pushes multi-function devices, driven by our lust for convenience and instant gratification. Masked as consumer demand, this drive reflects our lizard brain rather than our needs. The result? Endless "smart" devices promising an easier life while fragmenting attention and diminishing agency.

Yet, a counter-movement exists.

A dedicated e-reader with e-ink display. Pour-over coffee rather than plastic pods. A radio with three buttons for streaming music.

These "single-task tools" preserve intentionality by supporting human capability without exploiting attention or automating the embodied experience.

Productive Friction

Single-task tools aren't valuable for their limitations. Their power is in creating "humanizing friction"--small barriers forcing conscious engagement.

Loading a memory card or picking a device for one task aren't inconveniences to engineer away. They're features that transform mindless consumption into mindful practice.

Friction serves several purposes:

• Creates moments for contemplation ("Do I want to take pictures now?")
• Enforces intentionality in tool selection
• Maintains clear boundaries between different activities
• Prevents the constant context-switching that plagues modern device use

A Design Philosophy for the Present

This understanding suggests a new approach to technology and UX design:

• Single-purpose functionality over feature multiplication
• User agency over automated convenience
• Skill development over friction removal
• Engagement with the world over interface engagement
• Tool transparency over constant presence

The goal isn't to remove technology, but to take charge of it. Each tool should serve one clear purpose, and then get out of the way. That's what allows users to focus on the activity rather than the tool, and on the world rather than an interface.

Practical Implementation

Does this approach address technology's systemic nature? History shows that paradigm shifts often begin with individual consciousness and practical alternatives.

That's why I'm convinced that what we need now is a framework that offers concrete guidance for both creating and choosing technology.

For designers:

• Instead of asking "What else can this do?" ask "What should this not do?"
• Design for engagement rather than efficiency
• Create meaningful friction that supports rather than obstructs the core purpose
• Focus on transparency after function delivery

For users:

• Choose tools based on how they shape attention and engagement
• Recognize that convenience isn't always beneficial
• Value productive friction as a feature rather than a bug
• Create intentional boundaries between different activities

We should create pockets of reflection and intentional use. In this way, single-task tools become a bridge toward the more profound engagement Borgmann envisions.

I'm not sure if or how these practices would scale beyond personal choice. We've never seen "humanizing friction" at the massive scale that characterizes our device-driven world. Perhaps that's telling--maybe meaningful engagement resists industrial scaling. The power of this approach begins with individual choices and small group dynamics. How (or whether) it might transform larger systems remains to be seen.

Looking Forward

Returning to traditional "things" is idealistic in today's world. Borgmann's insights about meaningful engagement are crucial, but complete rejection of devices isn't viable.

The path forward requires three key recognitions:

• We can't reverse technological progress, but we can shape its trajectory
• Engineers and designers have most agency in preserving focal practices
• Users can create intentional spaces for meaningful engagement

"Single-task tools" combine modern capabilities with traditional engagement. Not from nostalgia, but because they better serve human needs and values. In our fractured era, single-tasking becomes an act of self-care and intentional living.

The future of technology doesn't have to rush toward a totalizing "everything device." Through individual choices and small group adoption, we can create spaces that preserve what makes us human.

You achieve inbox zero, demolish your to-do list, and optimize your workflow to perfection. Victory, right? But instead of feeling triumphant, you're exhausted. And somehow there's more work than ever.

Welcome to the productivity paradox.

"The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves."
- Alan Watts

The Hamster Wheel Effect

The more productive we become, the more the world demands of us. We're like hamsters on a wheel, running faster and faster, yet going nowhere. Why? Because the world's supply of work is effectively limitless.

Lightning-fast email responses are just training everyone to expect immediate replies forever.

We've somehow convinced ourselves that we should become "human doings" rather than "human beings."

Homes turned into offices, vacations into "workations", hobbies into side hustles, and profound human needs like sleep into another optimization project where your REM and HRV phases must hit certain goals.

We're all competing in the Productivity Olympics, where the Gold medal = Burnout, Silver medal = Nervous breakdown, and Bronze medal = Perpetual exhaustion.

The Reality Check

"Modern man thinks he loses something--time--when he does not do things quickly. Yet he does not know what to do with the time he gains--except kill it."
- Erich Fromm

When was the last time you watched clouds drift by, had a phone-free conversation, or simply existed--without guilt? It's time for a different approach.

What if efficiency isn't about doing more, but about creating space for what matters?

Imagine using your productivity superpowers to make time for:

• Daydreaming
• Growing gardens
• Taking long walks
• Having meaningful conversations

This isn't laziness-it's strategic inefficiency. Your worth isn't measured in completed tasks or answered emails, but in the richness of your experiences and the depth of your connections.

Time isn't a resource to be maximized, but the very essence of your existence.

Ask yourself: Am I running towards something meaningful, or just running because I've forgotten how to stop?

Remember: Even God took a day off. The world won't stop spinning if you decide to spin a little slower.

Sometimes the most revolutionary move is to stop playing altogether. You might just win by losing.

From one-click purchases to AI-generated art, we've optimized away life's little frustrations, betting on our discontent with reality itself. But in our quest to make everything easier, could we accidentally be erasing what makes us human?

Shortcuts, especially digital shortcuts, are not just making tasks easier: they're fundamentally changing how we exist in the world. Trading real-world friction for digital ease often means losing our essential capacity for deep, embodied satisfaction.

The convenience regime sells us a peculiar bargain: "I'll free you from the messiness of human existence so you can focus on being yourself more."

But aren't you the sum of the tasks you spend your time on? Isn't there something fundamentally human about wrestling some messy reality rather than just managing its digital alternative?

"Inconvenience" isn't just the relic of a pre-digital age: it's about the fundamental human need for challenge, discovery, and physical engagement with the world.

That's the convenience paradox: the more we optimize our lives, the less we actually live them.

We're becoming masters of arrangement rather than action, curators instead of creators. Our lives risk turning into a series of frictionless transactions where we're always efficiently arriving but never really traveling.

"Do everything by hand, even when using the computer."
- Miyazaki Hayao

We've optimized away discomfort, only to find that it was a secret ingredient.

In this limbo of superficial contentment, everything is easier but nothing feels earned. Some difficulty isn't a bug in the human experience-it's a feature.

This isn't about becoming neo-Luddites or romanticizing inefficiency. It's about recognizing that sometimes the slower way is the best way for you. It's about understanding that the richness of life also lies in its imperfections and challenges. And there are some practical ways to do it:

• Every so often, pick the "inefficient" choice--cooking from scratch, having that awkward face-to-face conversation, fixing something with your hands.
• Don't ask yourself "How can I make this easier?" but "What am I giving up when I choose the convenient path?" Our default choices aren't neutral--they're the most powerful monopolies we face.
• Next time you're faced with a choice between the automated and the mindful way, ask yourself: Which will make for a better memory and story?

The antidote to the convenience regime is to consciously choose when to embrace the friction that makes us human--what I call the art of deliberate friction-building.

If your life was just about reaching destinations as quickly as possible, you'd be in a coffin already.

That's why, in a world racing towards total automation, the most compassionate act towards yourself may occasionally be to pick the slower, harder path--blisters and all.

At my core, there's a fascination with people who distill complexity into its essence. Whether it's in architecture, philosophy, comedy, or design, I'm drawn to minds that cut through the noise to reveal fundamental truths, much like the concepts explored in The Art of Deliberate Friction-Building.

Form: Simplicity and Modernism

Take architecture and design: Mies van der Rohe and Jony Ive are both examples of simplicity in form. Their approach to architecture, typography, and product design embodies a Western intellectual tradition that resonates deeply with me. After comedy led me to Chicago, I also found a city that breathes modernist architecture (and where, in fact, it was born thanks to exiled Bauhaus masters).

My taste for certain design started in childhood casually surrounded by everyday Brionvega appliances designed by Sottsass and Sapper, which echoes the principles found in The Lost Art of Single-Tasking Devices. It evolved through iPods and iBooks in high school, and ultimately drove me to pursue Architecture and Industrial Design in college (spoiler alert: I quit, close to graduation, to work full time as a satirist.)

Spirit: Simplicity and Zen

But the pursuit of essence isn't limited to the visual. Spiritually, I've found profound wisdom in Zen teachings, particularly through Suzuki Roshi, since my early 20s. This introspective journey began in my teenage years, sitting alone and reading the Tao Te Ching. It has even liberated my understanding of Christianity and other spiritual traditions, deepening my interest in others' experiences.

A chance walk by the San Francisco Zen Center during my first visit to the Bay Area at 25 further shaped this path, eventually leading me to explore the intersection of mindfulness and theater improvisation in Chicago.

Strength and Levity: Comedy, Improv, Satire

My appreciation for truth-finding extends to those who use humor as their medium. This journey began with Daniele Luttazzi, a prodigious Italian plagiarist who inadvertently introduced me to the works of George Carlin and other famous American stand-up comedians. Their caustic wit and social commentary shaped my view of the media, technology, and society's paradoxes.

This fascination led me to devour the works of Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl, and many others, ultimately guiding me towards improv in Chicago. My entire 20s were dedicated to satirizing the political situation in Italy through radio, TV, and nascent online platforms.

A pivotal moment came when I was 12, accidentally watching "Man on the Moon" in the theaters (my freshly separated mom thought a Jim Carrey movie would be uplifting). The film's surreal tone of constantly pranking the world and the self has influenced me profoundly. Even now, 25 years later, I unconsciously bow like Andy Kaufman did-a lifelong homage often mistaken for cultural appropriation from Japan.

Among the degradation of high school education in the outskirts of Rome, I was lucky in three fields: our literature professor, Enzo, organized a weekly movie forum that encompassed Kubrick, Allen, Fellini, Almodovar, Pasolini, and more. As rich as Italy is with classical arts, he believed cinema was as important as those. This was an exception to what I discussed in How High School Preps You for Trivia But Not for Real Life.

Maurizio, the technical education professor, held a lab for animating in Flash, designing in Fireworks, modeling in 3DSMax, and shooting shorts with digital Super-8s and Avid.

This mix of interests in social dynamics, media, spirit, and simplicity, much later led me to thinkers like Ivan Illich, whose commitment to humanism and social engagement has been a guiding light in my interactions with the world.

Craft: Video and Audio Self-Production

But let's not forget the power of pop culture. The depths of Neon Genesis Evangelion, the innovative design of the Dreamcast, and the artistic vision of 2000s SEGA games have all left their mark. These seemingly "lowbrow" influences connect surprisingly well with "highbrow" concepts-just look at how a game like REZ links Kandinsky, the Bauhaus movement, EDM, and hacker culture.

I could boast about the French and German literature and philosophy I've devoured, from Balzac to Heidegger, Baudelaire to Tolstoy. But Carl Barks' Disney comics and Toriyama's Dragon Ball shaped me just as, if not more, profoundly. I only ever cried for a famous stranger when Akira Toriyama died.

My early forays into technology-installing my first Red Hat Linux distro at 14-have been just as necessary as my love for Illich's social theories. I'm a tinkerer at heart, whether it's producing and editing hundreds of videos, tweaking processes for writers and performers in public radio programs, or designing machines and systems for others and me.

Night after night, I self-produced over a decade of video, since before YouTube or algorithmic feeds were a thing. Initially, this was ahead of the times enough that I was hired full time by a national newspaper as a videographer and author at age 21 (even dropping out of my first college attempt, as mentioned earlier).

Looking at the Tapestry of Yourself

This tapestry of influences has woven itself into my creative work, particularly in photography.

Like with my decade in improv comedy (graduating from The Second City in Chicago and producing shows across Europe) I'm drawn to street photography because it marries the formal elements of artistic creations (or the lack thereof) with the spontaneous truths of life.

Street photos are like visual zen koans to me-you sense the truth, but explaining it only dilutes its power.

I've always been an observer, finding marvel in unexpected corners of life. This outsider perspective, perhaps amplified by coming out to everyone as gay over 20 years ago at age 15 (my school a mile from the Vatican, in a heavily proletarian but neo-fascist area) combined with my diverse influences, allows me to see connections between seemingly unrelated ideas. Like finding common ground between Sottsass's design philosophy and George Carlin's comedy.

The uniqueness of your perspective comes from how varied influences intertwine.

My voice emerges from the unlikely combination of flashy games and zen philosophy, or the juxtaposition of satire in everyday life and Mies van der Rohe's architecture. In these unexpected connections, we find our authentic expression.

So, here's my invitation to you: What are your influences? How have they shaped your way of expressing yourself and interacting with others?

Be honest and comprehensive-include everything from your aunt's wisdom to your favorite trash movie. The interesting parts of you come from how these diverse elements mix and match.

Your unique voice is about how you combine the highbrow with the lowbrow, the ancient with the modern, the serious with the playful.

Creativity lies in the gaps between established ideas.

Unravel your lineage of influences. Be surprised by the patterns you discover, and the unique tapestry they weave in shaping who you are.

Let me paint you a picture: A communal campfire flickering in rural Michigan. Stars above, forest around. My partner and me, a foreigner, face-to-face with a local prison guard and his girlfriend.

At first, silence. Wary glances. Then, "Where you guys from?" he asks.

With my accent, I tell him. His girlfriend leans in, curious. "What made you move to the US?"

Stories flow. They share tales of small-town life. It's different from anything I experienced. Not worse, nor better. Different. I listen, ask. My accent softens their edges.

My partner, tense, starts to relax. He chimes in, cracks a joke. Laughter breaks the night.

An hour passes. Masks slip. The guard mentions the kids. Her kids. His girlfriend sighs, "Different dads."

"It's tough," she admits. He nods, squeezes her hand.

At that moment, we're just people. No prison guard, no foreigners. Just sharing truths, much like the shared inspirations discussed in The Tapestry of Influence: The Inspirations That Shape Us.

As embers fade, I realize this is how change begins: One campfire, one conversation. We're different. But we are not.

Lowering our guards. Seeing the human behind the label. Melting marshmallows. There are enough "us" vs. "them" people. It's more helpful to be a bridge person.

It ripples outward. From person to community to society, making us capable of Seeking Purpose and Connection in Disconnected Times.

In the egosystem's cracks, authenticity blooms.

One small step. One bridge built.

P.S. From the initial quote by Jung, I want to emphasize that he talks about any reaction. It doesn't need to be a constructive reaction for transformation to happen.

Ever notice how easy it is to get sucked into your phone? It's like a black hole of endless scrolling and notifications. Before facial recognition or fingerprints, you had to punch in a code to unlock your phone: that tiny bit of effort was enough to make you think twice.

But what if you could break free from this cycle and regain control over your mental health and relationship with your tools? Adding a little friction, like a human connection filter or slowing down animations, is a way to be more mindful about your tech use, challenging The Tyranny of Defaults: Why the Worst Monopolies Are in Your Mind.

There is "good" friction and "bad" friction.

Good friction means enough effort before using a tool so that you have pockets of focus and intentionality when you can think about how (or if) you must use it. Bad friction is poor UX and design--for example, a TV or a dishwasher needing a firmware update before you can use them again.

We want, of course, to leverage good friction because it's about reclaiming your time and mental health from the clutches of endless digital distractions.

Maybe change your phone's display to black and white or move apps to a different screen, or buy only celery sticks and guac as a snack to keep in the fridge. Sure, some of us will still drive at 2AM to get some bright blue bubblegum-flavored ice cream from a pharmacy. But it's an annoying small change that makes you slow down and think before diving in. It's like setting up mental (or fridge) speed bumps.

By making things a bit more challenging, you force yourself to be more deliberate, breaking the autopilot mode that tech often puts us in.

Notifications, as I discussed in How to Stare at Your Phone Without Losing Your Soul, are like tiny digital puppeteers, pulling your brain's strings throughout the day. What if you cut those strings? There are a few practical actions with technology that are easy to apply right away:

• Leave the phone outside the bedroom and use a standalone alarm clock.
• Forget grayscale filters: make animations slower using Android's Developer Settings. In that way, the multitasking gestures will take long enough to make you think (and frustrated.)
• Use the human connection filter: A simple rule of thumb is to only permit notifications that come directly from another human being.
• Drop the illusion of urgency: From weather alerts to traffic updates, our phones bombard us with a constant stream of supposedly urgent information. It's just part of The Market's Digestive System: How Radical Ideas Become Marketing Gimmicks. Does learning about somebody with a scimitar roaming two miles away via the Citizen app make any difference in your life?

In a world engineered to be frictionless, adding a bit of resistance can be revolutionary. Embrace a little slow down, and take back control: Your mind will thank you.