Month: December 2024

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The Graph of Desire (Without Making Your Head Spin) and a Music Game for You! 45#

4 min read

What Are We Looking At?

This diagram comes from Jacques Lacan’s psychoanalytic theory, commonly referred to as the “graph of desire.” Now, if you’ve ever tried to read Lacan’s work, you’ll know he’s notoriously difficult to understand. Honestly, I sometimes wonder: Why did you write in such a way that makes comprehension feel like solving a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded?

My aim here, however, is to take something incredibly fascinating and complex and make it accessible to everyone.

While this graph might resemble the wiring diagram of a spaceship, it’s actually a visualisation of how desire, language, and subjectivity function in human experience. Sounds intriguing, right? Let me break it down for you and to make it even more intriguing, I’ll associate a song with each aspect of desire

The Basics:

1. S(Ⱥ) — The Barred Other

S(Ⱥ): This is the “barred Other” — it represents the idea that the ultimate “Other” (society, authority, the symbolic order) can never fully give us what we desire. It’s like asking life for meaning, and life just shrugs and says, “Good luck with that.”

Song: “(I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For)” — U2
Why? This song captures the eternal search for something more — spiritual, emotional, or existential — that we can never quite reach.

2. Jouissance

Jouissance: This French word means something like “intense pleasure” or even “ecstasy.” But Lacan, being Lacan, also ties it to suffering. Basically, when you go after ultimate satisfaction, you hit limits, and it’s frustrating. Think of eating your favourite chocolate cake — you love it until you’ve had too much and feel a bit sick. The bittersweet pursuit of intense pleasure, where enjoyment is always mixed with a little bit of suffering.

Song: “Comfortably Numb” — Pink Floyd
Why? It’s about the paradoxical state of feeling pleasure and pain simultaneously — numbing yourself to enjoy but losing something in the process.

3. Castration:

Don’t panic — it’s not as grim as it sounds. This simply refers to the idea that we all have to sacrifice a certain level of enjoyment to function within the symbolic world of language, culture, and society. It’s like that classic truth: you can’t always get what you want, because, well, life has rules.

Song: “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” — Green Day
Why? This song reflects the sense of loss and limitation we feel as we navigate a world where we can’t have it all.

4. Signifiers

These are the bits of language and symbols we use to make sense of the world. They structure how we think and express ourselves, but they’re never quite enough to capture the full picture of who we are or what we desire. It’s like trying to describe a dream — you can never fully explain it.

Song: “Words” — Bee Gees
Why? This song reflects the frustration of language not being enough to express the depths of love or longing: “It’s only words, and words are all I have.”

5. Voix (The Voice)

The emotional power of the voice, which communicates more than words ever can — desire, longing, and vulnerability.

Lacan thought the voice was a big part of how we experience desire. It’s not just about what we say, but how we say it — like when someone’s tone can convey longing, frustration, or excitement even if their words don’t.

Song: “Someone Like You” — Adele
Why? Adele’s voice itself is an embodiment of raw emotion, conveying heartbreak and yearning far beyond the actual lyrics.

6. Desire

The circular, never-ending nature of desire — it’s not about fulfilling it but about the chase and the impossibility of complete satisfaction.

Song: “Satisfaction” — The Rolling Stones
Why? It’s literally about the impossibility of satisfaction, no matter how much you try. The quintessential anthem for Lacanian desire.

Why It’s Useful (Kind of)

This graph might look confusing, but it’s Lacan’s way of explaining that human desire is complicated. It’s never straightforward — our wants are tied up in language, relationships, and unconscious processes. It’s why getting what you think you want doesn’t always make you happy, and why some dreams feel so out of reach.

Ultimately, I believe desire is not something to suppress but to transform. It is an energy that, when understood, can guide us toward growth, love, and fulfillment. The key lies in shifting our relationship with desire — moving from unconscious craving to conscious engagement. Instead of being enslaved by our impulses, we can pause, reflect, and channel that energy into joy, inner peace, and meaningful action.

When a craving arises, instead of immediately reacting, we can pause and ask ourselves a few key questions: “What is it that I really want? Will acting on this desire bring me lasting happiness or fleeting satisfaction? Is this something I need, or is it simply a habit or distraction?” This simple practice of inquiry allows us to step back, observe the desire for what it truly is, and respond with awareness rather than automaticity.

I particularly enjoy listening to music as a way to explore the complexity of desire. Art, and music especially, has a unique ability to reflect the nuances of our unconscious desires. By engaging with the emotions, stories, and perspectives in songs, we often uncover deeper truths about ourselves. In listening to others, we learn about our own longings, struggles, and joys. Music becomes not just entertainment but a mirror, helping us to understand and relate to our own inner world.

So, what songs would you add to the list? What pieces of music resonate with your own experiences of desire, love, frustration, or growth? Let’s build a soundtrack to explore and celebrate the richness of human longing together— and perhaps, in doing so, our desires will become less automatic and more intentional.

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Mindfulness During the Holidays: Reflections from Thich Nhat Hanh’s Teachings 44

4 hours ago

On 22 January 2022, the world mourned the passing of Thich Nhat Hanh, the beloved Vietnamese Zen master, poet, and peace activist. Though he is no longer with us in body, his profound teachings on mindfulness, peace, and presence continue to inspire and guide millions around the world.

As we approach the holiday season — a time often marked by both joy and stress — his wisdom feels more vital than ever. By revisiting his books, we can imagine Thay, our “teacher,” gently guiding us to navigate this season with peace and presence through the following practices:

1. Walk Slowly, Breathe Deeply

We often rush — from shopping to celebrations. Thay would remind us to “walk as if we are kissing the Earth with our feet.” Instead of hurrying, take mindful steps. Whether walking to visit family or through a bustling market, breathe deeply and notice each step. Walking slowly grounds us and reminds us that we are alive, here, and now.

2. Offer Presence, Not Just Presents

We often get caught up in the material side of the holidays. Yet, as Thay would say, “The most precious gift we can offer is our true presence.” Put away distractions, such as phones or worries about tomorrow, and be fully there for those around you. Listen to their stories, hold their hands, and share moments of quiet joy.

3. Find Peace in Simplicity

Sometimes we become overwhelmed because we focus on making everything ‘perfect.’ Thay would remind us that beauty is found in simplicity. A shared cup of tea, a gentle smile, or a moment of silence can be enough to nourish the heart. Simplify plans, simplify meals, and leave space for stillness.

4. Transform Loneliness into Connection

For some, holidays bring feelings of loneliness. Thay would encourage us to turn loneliness into an opportunity for connection — not just with others but with ourselves and nature. He might suggest going outside to notice the beauty of the sky, the trees, and the breath within us. In these quiet moments, we reconnect with the world and recognise that we are never truly alone.

5. Practise Loving-Kindness Meditation

This time of year can bring challenges with family dynamics or personal stress. Thay would encourage us to practise loving-kindness meditation (Metta) to cultivate compassion. Begin by silently repeating: “May I be happy, may I be peaceful, may I be free from suffering.” Then, extend this wish to loved ones, strangers, and even those who challenge you.

6. Listen to the Sounds of Nature

Festive seasons can be noisy and overstimulating. Thay would remind us to seek the stillness of nature. Take time to listen to the wind, the birds, or the gentle rustle of trees. These sounds bring us back to ourselves and help us find peace in the present moment.

7. Eat Mindfully and Honour Your Food

Thay would encourage us to see food as a gift from the Earth. Eating slowly, with awareness, allows us to appreciate every bite. As we enjoy a festive meal, we can pause and silently thank the farmers, cooks, and nature for nourishing us. In doing so, eating becomes an act of gratitude.

Finally you may find this adaptation helpful:

A Holiday Meditation for Peace and Presence

Breathing in, I feel calm and grounded.
Breathing out, I release all tension.

Breathing in, I bring my awareness to this moment.
Breathing out, I smile with gratitude for what is.

Breathing in, I embrace the joy and love of this season.
Breathing out, I send peace to myself and to all beings.

Breathing in, I touch the stillness within me.
Breathing out, I open my heart to the world.

Dwelling in the present moment, I see this season as a gift.

Happy holidays, folks!

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Time doesn’t erase pain; it just changes the conversation. 43#

2 min read

They say “time heals all wounds.” How poetic. How comforting. And, oh, how utterly mistaken. Healing? No, time does not heal. Time is too mischievous for that. Like a slightly careless artist, time simply paints over the cracks — messy strokes of new experiences that camouflage the old. You don’t heal; you replace.

The heartbreaks, the losses, the embarrassments — you don’t get rid of them, do you? You forget them just enough for life to trick you into moving forward. It’s a sleight of hand, and we all play along because we like the illusion.

You just wished to wash your hands, and there it is, scrawled across the wall in purple graffiti — TIME HEALS NOTHING. IT JUST REPLACES MEMORIES. Well, that’s blunt. Thank you, mysterious wall writer. This isn’t the motivational poster you expected. Instead, you get truth: raw and dripping, like the leaky tap beneath that very sink

The mind is clever. When life gets painful, it doesn’t throw the bad memories away; it tucks them into some dusty mental loft. Out of sight, out of mind, but you don’t forget. You fill in the emptiness with friendships, laughter, and Netflix binges.

Is that a bad thing? Not necessarily. Replacement works! It’s efficient, like changing a broken chair. Why mend something old when you can bring in something new? Time doesn’t erase pain; it just changes the conversation.

Look at the sinks again. They are not symbols of cleansing; they are witnesses. People came to wash their hands, perhaps to cool their faces. But the graffiti stays, the memory intact.

Go ahead. Wash your hands. Smile at that graffiti. Then walk away — towards the next replacement or make your life beautiful. You can’t heal everything, but you can grow around your wounds. Some memories are like ink stains — impossible to scrub out entirely. So why not laugh about it?

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“Devise a plan to escape from yourself” 42#

2 min read

We could translate this graffiti from Italian as “Devise a plan to escape from yourself.” However, it is difficult to interpret the last word. It could be a misspelling, something informal, or perhaps the signature of the writer. But for the sake of this reflection, I will take it as “da te” — from yourself.

Human beings are strange creatures. We build prisons around ourselves — and then decorate them. We settle into relationships that no longer nourish the heart, jobs that slowly crush the spirit, and identities shaped by the hands of society. Why? To shield ourselves from an unknown fear: the fear of freedom.

We suffer, yet we resist escape. The bars of our prisons are not iron but familiarity. Comfort. Predictability. The known may suffocate us, but it does not terrify us. And so we cling to the familiar, even when it dims our light.

True escape is not running from the world; it is breaking free from yourself — the self that has been moulded by fear, habit, and compromise.

To escape does not mean running away from responsibilities. It means understanding which responsibilities are real and which are borrowed from others. It means shedding everything that is not truly you. Escape is an art, and the master of it does not move from place to place — they move from illusion to truth.

Have you ever noticed? Trees shed their leaves. Rivers break through stones. Birds fly without baggage. Nature escapes constantly, unburdened, for it knows the secret: life is movement, and stillness is death when imposed by fear.

Your first escape must be inward.
Escape the conditioning that says, “You cannot.”
Escape the voice that whispers, “You must conform.”
Escape the thoughts that chain you to the ordinary.

Then devise your plan:

  1. Escape what numbs your senses.
  2. Escape what does not ignite joy in your being.
  3. Escape anything that keeps you small.

An escape is not a rejection of the world. It is the re-discovery of your infinite self. And when you escape the false, you are not left empty — you are left open. Open to existence, to the unknown, to life itself.

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Question everything. Why? 41#

4 min read

If you are a parent, you’ve certainly noticed that delightful (and sometimes exhausting) phase when your child hits the age of three or four — the “why?” stage. Why do I have to go to bed? Why can’t I sleep in your bed?Why can’t I eat sweets for breakfast? Why, why, why? It’s endless! You answer one question, and before you’ve finished speaking, another “why?” comes flying at you. It’s as if your child is a tiny philosopher, relentlessly searching for the truth.

At first, it’s charming. You marvel at their curiosity, their hunger to understand the world. But after the hundredth “why” in a single hour, it starts to wear you down. You catch yourself saying things like, “Because I said so!” or “That’s just the way it is.” And without realising it, you begin to teach them to stop asking questions.

This is where the tragedy begins. Children are naturally curious — they question everything because the world is new, magical, and full of mystery. But as they grow older, they learn to accept answers without thinking. Society rewards obedience, not questioning. And so, the child who once asked “why?” about everything becomes the adult who accepts “that’s just how it is” without a second thought.

“Question everything,” it says on the wall. This is not just graffiti; it’s a call to reclaim that childlike wonder. It’s an invitation to return to the innocence of a three-year-old who has the courage to ask “why?” about everything — fearlessly, endlessly, and joyfully. And then the second word appears like a challenge: “Why?”

This is the essence of life: Why? Why am I here? Why do I believe what I believe? Why am I living this way?

The Death of Wonder

Most people are asleep. They live like robots — repeating what they have been told, never wondering why. Religion, politics, and culture all offer answers ready-made. They tell you what to believe, what to do, what is right and wrong. And if you dare to ask “why?”, you are labelled difficult, rebellious, or naive.

But to truly live is to question everything. Don’t accept anything at face value — not even what I say! Truth is not something given to you; it’s something you must discover for yourself. Your why is your journey. The moment you stop asking why, your life becomes stagnant. You become a prisoner of borrowed answers.

The Courage to Question

To question is to take a risk. Why? Because the answers might not be what you want to hear. They might tear apart everything you thought was true — your relationships, your beliefs, your identity. It’s not easy. It takes courage to stand alone, to let go of certainty, and to face the unknown.

But the word “why” is powerful. It burns through illusions. You might discover that what you thought was love is really dependency, or that success, as society defines it, is just a fancy word for slavery. When you ask “why?”, you stop living on autopilot. You stop living the life others planned for you. You start carving your own path.

But don’t stop with one answer. Every answer carries another question within it. This is the beauty of life: there are no final conclusions. Life is not a problem to solve; it’s a mystery to experience.

Questioning and Silence

Question everything until the questions themselves disappear. The wisest people — Buddha, Lao Tzu, Jesus — did not find answers; they found silence. When you question deeply enough, the mind falls quiet. The questions dissolve. And in that silence, you realise the truth: there is no final answer — there is only life, here and now.

True questioning is not just intellectual; it’s existential. It brings you to your very core. All the beliefs you borrowed from others fall away, and you are left with nothing but yourself — raw, real, and alive.

Live Your Why

To question is to wake up. To wake up is to truly live. Don’t be afraid to sound foolish or to stand alone. Remember, every great discovery began with a question: Why? What if? Why not?

Let your life be a question, not a conclusion. When you leave this world, don’t leave it with borrowed beliefs. Leave it empty, knowing you questioned, you explored, and you truly lived.

So, the next time your child asks you “why?”, pause for a moment. Don’t rush to silence them. Instead, ask yourself: Why have I stopped asking?

As the graffiti reminds you — “Why?” — let it be more than a question. Let it be your meditation.

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You are the piece of shadow where my reflection gets lost 40#

4 min read

I am a graffiti lover, and I believe that sometimes you can randomly stumble upon truly great pieces of art. It’s fascinating how someone can choose a simple wall to express their voice, share an invitation to think differently, or pour out their deepest thoughts and lessons for the world to see. This particular graffiti, with its poetic words, “You are the piece of shadow where my reflection gets lost,” is no exception. But if you look closely, there’s another layer — a small child drawn beneath the words, staring out at us with haunting simplicity.

The child adds a dimension that turns this piece from a simple poetic statement into something deeper, perhaps even more vulnerable. What does this child represent? Innocence? Vulnerability? Or perhaps the part of ourselves that still lingers in the shadows, waiting to be acknowledged?

The Child as the Shadow

In the poetic phrase, “You are the piece of shadow where my reflection gets lost,” the child below the words could represent the forgotten or hidden parts of ourselves — the childlike essence we often push aside as we grow older. Thich Nhat Hanh often spoke about the “inner child,” the vulnerable, tender self within us that never fully disappears. This child doesn’t judge, doesn’t hold grudges, and doesn’t obsess over reflections or shadows. The child simply is.

When someone else becomes the “shadow where your reflection gets lost,” they may be leading you back to this inner child — a space where you no longer need to hold onto the ego, to define yourself through external mirrors. Instead, you return to simplicity, to being.

The Dance of Light, Shadow, and Innocence

Thich Nhat Hanh often spoke of interbeing, the idea that nothing exists independently — it all depends on everything else. The child beneath the graffiti reminds us of this interconnectedness. A shadow can’t exist without light, and a reflection can’t exist without a surface to reflect upon. The light is clarity, understanding, and individuality — the bright outline of who we think we are. The shadow? That’s the unknown: our fears, desires, insecurities, and everything we’d rather keep hidden.

And the child? The child stands as a reminder that what we often push into the shadows — the tender, vulnerable parts of ourselves — are what make us whole. To lose your reflection in someone else’s shadow is to let go of the rigid definitions of who you are and to surrender to the shared mystery of existence. In that space, we rediscover the openness and innocence of a child.

The Shadow as a Mindful Teacher

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that even difficult experiences — the shadows in our lives — are opportunities to grow. “No mud, no lotus,” he would say. Shadows, like the mud that nourishes the lotus flower, are essential for transformation. They hold the lessons we often avoid but desperately need.

The child in this graffiti seems to understand this truth better than we do. Look at the simplicity of its gaze — not judging, not resisting. The shadow in this artwork isn’t darkness in the negative sense. It’s the place where we step away from the spotlight of our self-importance, where we can release the constant need to define who we are. It’s a place where, like the child, we can simply be.

“Be Purple”: A Return to Childlike Presence

And then there’s the enigmatic signature at the bottom: “Be Purple.” Why purple? Thich Nhat Hanh often spoke about the beauty of balance — of finding harmony between opposites. Purple is the result of blending the fiery energy of red with the calm serenity of blue. It represents transformation, just as mindfulness transforms suffering into peace, and fear into understanding.

To “be purple” is also to embrace the simplicity of a childlike mind — a mind that sees no division between light and shadow, reflection and loss. It’s an invitation to live fully in the present moment, to embrace innocence and openness, and to allow transformation to unfold naturally, without resistance.

A Reflection Worth Losing

Most of us spend our lives staring at our own reflection — our accomplishments, our image, our identity. But, as Thich Nhat Hanh taught, “We are here to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.” To lose your reflection in someone else’s shadow is not to disappear but to awaken. It is to recognise that you and the shadow, you and the other person, are not two separate entities but part of the same dance of existence.

And what about the child? The child stands beneath these words, not lost in the shadows but waiting for us to remember who we are. To lose your reflection might be to rediscover the simple gaze of that child within you, the one who knew how to live without the weight of ego or expectations.

The Purple Path Forward

So, the next time you encounter someone who pulls you into their shadow, don’t resist. Don’t cling to your reflection or your ego. Instead, let yourself dissolve, as the child reminds us to. Step into that space of unknowing, where innocence meets transformation. Trust that, in losing your reflection, you’re discovering something infinitely more meaningful: connection, humility, and peace.

And as you walk this path, remember the wisdom of both the graffiti and Thich Nhat Hanh: lose yourself, embrace the shadow, reconnect with your inner child — and be purple.

Perhaps the author of this graffiti meant to convey something entirely different, something only they can truly understand. And that’s precisely why it is art. It invites us to bring our own stories, our own meanings, and, like a shadow, it takes shape depending on the light we shine upon it. That’s the magic — art doesn’t give us answers; it gives us the questions we didn’t know we needed to ask. And for that, we should be grateful.

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Life is a continuum 39#

2 min read
                                                                                 Image by Will McPhail. All rights reserved to the artist.

Life is a continuum, with each generation inheriting a unique blend of challenges, values, and opportunities from the one before it. The statement, “When I was your age, things were hard for my dad when he was my age,” beautifully captures the cyclic nature of human struggle and the perspectives that shape it. Within this reflection lies a profound truth about our interconnectedness and the potential for conscious transformation.

Every generation becomes a bridge between the past and the future. A father’s struggles often stem from the hardships his own father faced, creating an echo through time. Yet, this is not a burden to carry forward — it is an opportunity to understand, transform, and grow. The question is whether we let these echoes define us or rise above them to create a new possibility.

Our lives are shaped not by what happens to us but by how we respond. Every generation faces unique challenges, whether poverty, societal shifts, or emotional disconnection. However, it is not the external difficulties that define us, but the wisdom and resilience we cultivate through them. One generation may pass down compassion and strength; another may perpetuate fear and bitterness. The choice lies in how we engage with these experiences.

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that the present moment holds the power to heal. Mindfulness reminds us that while pain and difficulty exist, they do not define the entirety of life. By living fully in the present, we honour the struggles of the past without becoming trapped by them. Mindfulness invites us to see that while suffering may have deep roots in the past, joy and healing are always possible in the now.

To truly honour our ancestors’ struggles is not to carry their pain forward but to transcend it and create better possibilities for those who come after us. Thich Nhat Hanh speaks of the interconnectedness of all beings across time, teaching that we carry our ancestors within us and shape future generations through our actions. This realisation urges us to live mindfully, with awareness of our impact on both the past and the future.

Let us ask ourselves: What legacy are we building? Are we perpetuating cycles of hardship, or are we transforming them into opportunities for growth and joy? Recognising past struggles is essential, but defining ourselves by them limits our potential. Life offers us the possibility of shaping a brighter future through awareness, compassion, and conscious choice.

Ultimately, it is not the challenges we inherit that define us but the wisdom we choose to pass on. What will you leave for those who follow — a legacy of hardship, or the strength to transcend it?

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The World is Your Mirror 38#

2 min read

Our opinions about the world are never purely about the world. They are reflections of our inner state — our emotional wounds, unprocessed pain, and unmet needs. As Gabor Maté often highlights, the stories we tell about the world are shaped by the experiences that live within us, whether consciously or unconsciously.

When someone says, “The world is a cruel place,” it may be less a statement of objective truth and more an echo of their own unhealed suffering. As Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us, “When you transform the way you look at things, the things you look at transform.” This is not to deny that suffering exists in the world — of course it does — but to understand that our experience of it is deeply personal. The world becomes a mirror, reflecting the pain or peace we carry inside.

The key to shifting our perspective lies in cultivating awareness and compassion, not just for the world, but for ourselves. This is the essence of mindfulness. When we pause to look deeply at our reactions — our anger, judgment, or despair — we can ask, “Where is this really coming from?” Often, these emotions are rooted in old wounds that have yet to be acknowledged or healed.

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches us to hold these emotions gently, as a parent would cradle a crying child. When we bring this kind of mindful, compassionate attention to ourselves, we begin to heal the suffering within. And as we heal, the way we see the world begins to shift.

Imagine walking through a forest, Thich Nhat Hanh suggests. If your feet are bare and the ground is sharp with stones, every step will feel painful. But if you wear shoes, the very same path becomes easy to walk. The forest hasn’t changed — your relationship to it has. In the same way, when we tend to our inner wounds, we can navigate the world with greater ease and compassion.

So, the next time you find yourself judging the world or others, pause. Breathe. Ask yourself: What is this really about? What is my perception reflecting back to me? Healing and clarity begin with these gentle questions. When you see the world through the lens of a healed and peaceful heart, the world itself becomes a more peaceful and compassionate place.

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You have to die a few times before you can really live. 37#

What does it mean to die before you truly live? Charles Bukowski, in his raw and unapologetic way, has captured a profound truth that most miss in their hurried lives. To die does not mean the end of your physical body, but the death of the layers of conditioning that have suffocated your being.

We live, but in reality, we are not alive. We follow routines, beliefs, and societal expectations like puppets. This is not life — it is existence, a mechanical repetition of yesterday. Real life begins only when the old self, with its fears and attachments, collapses.

You must die to your ego, to your past, to your false sense of identity. These small deaths are painful — they demand courage. To lose what you think you are is terrifying, but it is only in this emptiness that you find your true self.

A flower must shed its petals to become the fruit. A snake must shed its skin to grow. So must you shed your illusions to experience freedom. Every heartbreak, every failure, every moment of despair — these are the moments of death that life gives you as a gift. They are not your enemies; they are your awakening.

Once you have tasted this inner death, life flows through you with a new freshness. You no longer cling to what is passing. You are free, vibrant, alive in the truest sense. Only then can you truly live — not as a collection of roles and masks, but as the vast, limitless being you are.

So die, again and again, and rise. With each death, a deeper life awaits

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Shall we burn hope, as Nietzsche suggests, or carry it like Bukowski’s lantern in the dark? Viktor Frankl might say, ‘neither.’ 36#

Premise:

Have you ever read something from a philosopher and thought, “Yes, this makes sense, this is true,” only to read another philosopher who says the exact opposite — and you think, “Wait, no, this makes sense too”? It happens to me continuously.

It’s like reading Locke and Hume.

Locke says, “We are born with a blank slate, like an empty notebook. Everything we know comes from experience — what we see, hear, touch, and so on.” Sounds right, doesn’t it? But then Hume comes along and says, “Sure, we learn from experience, but how do you know the sun will rise tomorrow? You’ve only seen it rise before. Your mind just assumes it will happen again, but you don’t actually know for sure.” And you think, “Wait, isn’t he also right?”

It feels confusing, doesn’t it? How can they both be right when they’re saying opposite things? That’s when Hegel steps in and says, “Relax, both of them are part of the truth. Locke focuses on the outside world — what we learn through experience. Hume highlights the uncertainty, memories, and predictions our mind creates based on that experience. Together, they reveal a bigger picture: knowledge emerges not just from external experience but also from the mind’s active role in organising and interpreting it (dialectical synthesis).

With this spirit, I approach Nietzsche and Bukowski, and my Hegel is Viktor Frankl.

Shall we burn hope, as Nietzsche suggests, or carry it like Bukowski’s lantern in the dark? Viktor Frankl might say, ‘neither.’

Nietzsche is clever. He sees that hope can be a trap. You sit there, waiting for tomorrow to save you. But what is tomorrow? It is a dream. And dreams, when clung to, become nightmares. Hope keeps you running, chasing something that may never come. You suffer now because you believe in the promise of relief later.

Perhaps, you are waiting for someone or something to come and save you — a saviour, a miracle, a stroke of luck. But this waiting, this dependence, becomes a prison. It limits your action, your freedom, your ability to move and shape your own life. When you place your hope in someone else, you give away your power. You hand over the reins of your life to a future that may never arrive, to a saviour who may never come. And in that dependence, you lose the courage to act here and now.

Stop waiting then. Stop hoping for someone to open the door. The lock is in your mind, and the key has always been in your hand. The moment you stop depending on the future, on others, on salvation from outside, you discover the immense strength of your own being. You realise you are not a victim waiting to be rescued — you are the source of your own liberation

But then, Bukowski comes along and says, “Without hope, a man is lost.” And he is not wrong. Without hope, you may stop running — but you may also stop moving altogether. You may sink into despair, frozen in the darkness of the present moment.

Personally, when it comes to hope, I believe nobody has observed and experienced it quite like Viktor Frankl. Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, neurologist, and psychiatrist, is best known for his book Man’s Search for Meaning, where he reflects on his time in Nazi concentration camps and explores the importance of finding meaning even in the darkest of circumstances.

In the book, Frankl offers a profound perspective on hope. He recounts the tragic story of a man in a concentration camp who believed he would be liberated by a specific date. That day became his sole focus and his only source of hope. However, when the day arrived and liberation did not come, the man’s hope was shattered. Shortly after, he died — not from physical exhaustion but because his spirit had given up.

For Frankl, this was a powerful lesson: hope tied to a fixed outcome can become a deadly trap. True hope, he suggests, must transcend specific outcomes and remain rooted in a deeper sense of meaning.

The Middle Path

So, what do we do? Shall we burn hope, as Nietzsche suggests? Or shall we carry it like Bukowski’s lantern in the dark? I say, neither. Let us go beyond hope.

Hope is neither your enemy nor your saviour. It is simply a tool. Use it when you must, but do not let it use you. Hope is like a ladder — you climb it to reach higher, but you don’t carry it on your back forever.

The problem is not hope. The problem is your attachment to it. You hope because you fear the present. You hope because you do not trust yourself to face what is here, right now.

A New Understanding

When you are fully present, hope becomes unnecessary. What is the point of dreaming about the future when you are enjoying the reality of now? But let’s not deny the truth — what beauty can you find in a concentration camp? In such unbearable suffering, hope becomes a lifeline, a fragile thread keeping you alive. Yet, even there, hope must not be blind. Use it when it helps, but do not let it enslave you. And most importantly, hope must not come with an expiry date.

Nietzsche feared hope because he saw its chains, tying us to illusions.

Bukowski loved hope because he felt its wings lifting us above despair. It was awful for him to work in a post office, not only because of the drudgery but also because he was unapologetically himself — a misfit in a world demanding conformity. But that’s another story.

Frankl, however, revealed something deeper: hope must be anchored not to a date or outcome but to meaning — a sense of purpose that transcends the circumstances.

For Viktor Frankl, survival was not just a question of “Will I survive?” but rather “Why must I survive?” For some, like the man in the concentration camp, the answer might be the vision of reuniting with loved ones — a meaning so profound it keeps the flame of life alive, even as the world crumbles around them. For Frankl himself, that meaning was found in his purpose: to document the horrors he endured and uncover the lessons within them. He clung to the belief that his suffering could serve a greater purpose, one that would help others navigate their own struggles. This sense of purpose became his anchor, transforming unimaginable pain into a deeper understanding of life and the resilience of the human spirit.

So, in the face of uncertainty and suffering, what is the “why” that fuels your hope and keeps you moving forward? How does your sense of purpose anchor your hope, even when the outcome is unknown?