Travel might be the best way to get out of a rut.

At home, our habits can become ingrained: almost unchangeable. Travel helps you grow aware of them. Novelty, as it shocks you, hits a mental reset button.

It reconfigures how you see things in front of you.

Our habits are at the basis of how we adapt.

As we grow accustomed to them, we forget they exist: they become our mind’s furniture. This makes the familiar easily mistaken for the universal. Although our preconceptions of life do not apply anywhere, we come to think they do.

Travel is great at blowing up this illusion.

Different cultures make us reconsider how we view things, but that is not all. At the foundation, novelty challenges our habits. Forced out of our comfort zone, we are forced to deal with an environment less predictable than home.

Because we inhabit home, we know how it works. Elsewhere, it is quite the opposite.

Meeting the unfamiliar, we are forced to adapt.

Amidst the unknown, even the simplest acts begin to demand attention again. What was once called normal is revealed to be merely what we were used to. Habits are the most fundamental thing travel lays bare.

They worked where you kept them, but that does not mean they will work wherever you will be.

Challenging habits is a miraculous side-effect of novelty.

A settled life brings stability, but can cause a rut. As our habits remain functional, they lull us to sleep. As we go on adventures, we are forced to integrate the unknown into the known.

The familiar should not be misinterpreted as how the world works.

Travel, instead, produces a continuous stream of situations in which our old programming fails. If we just do what we were used to, we fail, so we have to pay attention to real time. We become forced to guess, err, and adjust.

This requires humility. If you’re not willing to look stupid, you will not learn: not about other cultures, but also not about yourself.

There are two things novelty requires of us.

One is problem-solving. As you enter the new, it will throw unique problems at you. Since your familiar toolset cannot help you, you are forced to adapt.

The other is, simply, appreciation. Because any new good thing (like beauty, joy, or bliss) stirs up an appetite for life.

Novelty surprises not only on the side of difficulty, but also on the side of plenty..

We can be stuck at home for too long.

It can come to feel as if that is the only world that exists.

Travel will demonstrate to you that there are things to appreciate beyond the familiar. That changes your relationship to where you come from. It is still yours and appreciated, but now part of a larger inventory of things to be grateful for.

The known, home, then becomes a basis from which to explore the unknown: abroad.

Travel, in this light, is a way of placing yourself where new things keep arriving: good or bad. It is how we practice a specific kind of stance. One foot is in the familiar; the other in the foreign.

Because of its dual nature, both optimism and caution are required.

As Bilbo the Hobbit put it: “You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.” The unknown can be truly terrible, so there is wisdom in that.

But, equally, there is positive potential. The same step, if taken correctly, may lead to the promised land.

Both great and terrible things exist beyond the familiar.

Ruts can become dangerously tedious.

That means breaking out of them is necessary.

A rut is a repetition that has stopped teaching you. It takes from you, but no longer offers anything new. When a person gets too comfortable, their appetite for life can turn idle.

By breaking open the rut, travel brings you back in touch with yourself.

This is a worthwhile process. Predicting the world correctly is how people stay alive. A fully unchallenged life, however, may turn dangerously stagnant.

It can be difficult to snap out of.

To some, novelty even feels inherently negative. They view the foreign as inherently dangerous. Such people greet new things with contempt, as even abroad they merely recreate their home: what they are used to.

But new things, like all things, come in two forms: pleasant and problematic.

If you approach them with tact, your habits will be tested, but ultimately honed. You find out which ones were there for a reason, and which ones were just uselessly repetitive. If you were a computer, travel would be cause for a software update.

Not only does it stop you from crashing; it will help you function better. The previous versions of you may come to seem outdated by comparison.

But if you can manage it, you become more refined as a whole.

It will help you acquire a new skill set and a deeper appreciation for life. You will train yourself to no longer panic when you cross a new threshold, but adapt instead. This is how travel makes you formidable.

It is an integration tool for how you approach, experience, and appreciate the world.

By shaking up your habits, travel may change you fully.

If you do not let it scare you off, it will enrich you. Novelty thaws the rust of rest. It restores adaptive ability and reminds us of how beautiful the world can be.

If our habits do not change from time to time, they become a prison. Travel is the most immediate and efficient way to break out of it.

It is how we greet the world anew.

Even in modern times, there are still those who obsess over race.

It is fair to say most Westerners like diversity and would like racism itself to be a thing of the past. But race, as an issue, still influences politics, culture, and feelings of belonging. The most extreme groups throughout history even placed it at the foundation of their thought.

Why do so many individuals inflate its importance up to the point of religiosity?

Race seems like a painfully shallow judging tool.

Immediately, it concerns itself with surface appearance: color. In-depth, it concerns itself with DNA. But even our biological building blocks have their predictive limits.

In reality, we are both nature and nurture, and a great deal of the latter. Still, race remains a way for some to simplify human beings: sorting them into neat categories.

Unfortunately, if meaningless in itself, it becomes more meaningful when we treat it as such.

Racism - in all of its toxicity - is worth investigating.

After all, it is not yet fully gone.

To study it, we should start with the grimmest example ever produced: Nazism. Studying racism in its extreme should tell us something. The Nazis elevated race to such a degree that it defined how they organized society.

Science did not point in the direction of the Nazis, but they wanted to believe it did: so much that they pretended it to be so. Since Germany desired a story to restore its self-worth after humiliation, racism, with all its pretenses, provided it.

It was a malicious coping mechanism.

The Nazis treated their nation as one biological body, and their decline as a disease that befell it. Sickness, if not caused by oneself, is no cause for shame - this was their excuse. The purges that followed were merely framed as an immune response.

Ironically, that frame speaks to their fundamental weakness. The Nazis insisted on being a master race because they never mastered their situation.

If anything, their failure was to blame, and it would be twice to blame during the catastrophe to come.

They inflated the significance of race.

That provided them with temporary consolation.

The Nazis chose national socialism (or: racial solidarity) over liberal citizenship. Here, it turned into a new religion. The so-called purity they worshipped became an excuse for heinous crimes.

To them, cruelty was not a sickness; it was how the natural order expressed itself.

Primal instincts (such as hierarchy, kin-feeling, and scapegoating) undergirded how their society operated. Race was not just an aspect of their identity. It was at its center.

They believed the German race to be superior, and therefore that their racial destiny was to dominate. In reality, it was fueled by narcissistic self-importance: a desire to appear formidable by controlling others.

They wanted race to be fateful: indicative of the “grand future” ahead.

This leads us to why people unhealthily obsess over race.

They want to treat it as destiny. Today’s “race realists” should not casually be compared to Nazis. They are not nearly as absolutist.

Just because you study race does not mean you do so for nefarious purposes. Still, in it lies a similar risk.

The danger resides in turning race into an essence rather than an influence.

Down a long, slippery slope, “genes matter” may become “race should organize society.” First, bad scientists conclude that humans are merely their racial code. After that, bad politicians use it as an excuse to reorganize society.

Such a position, when espoused, is indefensible.

Statistical prediction is poor at determining outcomes for any individual, based on race or anything else. The fact that DNA influences how we function does not mean it should ever determine the rights of its carrier. One does not follow from the other.

The moment race is used as a master principle, it is made out as more than it ought to be. That typically indicates something other than science is being sold.

There is likely a political motivation underneath.

The question remains.

Why do people desire race to be fate?

Partially, it is because it delivers a false promise; one that reality does not. Just a single individual is too complex to be easily judged - let alone a group of individuals. Race provides a visible badge for instant judgement.

It offers an easy story of them and us: how they work, how we work, and why.

This provides the racist with an unearned sense of self.

If you believe your race to be superior, you award yourself an unearned elevation over others. You also draw a full map of who your friends and enemies are. Your actual desire becomes hypothetical destiny.

The benefits are plentiful.

The delusion far-rightists live in provides them with false hope. They believe the superiority within them will inevitably surface and restore the “natural” order. That means: their dominion.

As the Marxists believed revolution was inevitable, the Nazis believed the same for their racial triumph.

They cherry-picked science to confirm their bigotry.

But their vision of race reflected a wish, not reality. The Nazis were in denial of Germany failing by itself and being to blame for it. Hence, they needed to invent an imaginary villain: the Jews - an excuse for why they fell short.

As the state came to dictate everything, it came to dictate the “science” itself. Contradiction became synonymous with betrayal.

This does not mean it will happen again, but it does prove it has happened in the past.

Race remains a charged issue - even among scientists.

But this is rightfully so. If not handled with care, it turns into an excuse to sort humans into narrow boxes. Those who use race as a proxy for destiny still exist, and would use it again for political gain.

A true scientist always admits how little he knows. A political radical typically does the opposite.

False certainty betrays the difference.

Trolling is a funny word.

We use it for friendly roasting, but also for coordinated cruelty. Clearly, it applies to a broad spectrum of behavior. Cutting jokes can have real value, but pointless triggering less so.

How do we distinguish between the two?

We can start by defining trolling.

Some people who call themselves trolls may actually be worth listening to. They are performing a form of satire: lampooning overly serious people. Simultaneously, some of them are truly acting in bad faith.

There are trolls whose sole drive is to bring misery to others. Even some self-proclaimed satirists are just trolls with a large audience and institutional legitimacy.

Titles are not enough to determine which is which.

Trolling, at its heart, is not just innocent teasing.

It is typically an act of provocation. The goal of the troll is to elicit a reaction through irritation. He is an emotional manipulator.

The target’s rage makes him look bad and also keeps him engaged. That is exactly what the troll wants.

The victim, hooked in, grows increasingly exhausted.

The troll often does not even mean what he says.

Only the target has to. So long as he is offended, the troll has achieved his aim. The target then loses composure.

He is usually operating in better faith than the troll. As a result, he takes the trolling more seriously than it is meant to be.

The good faith of the target makes him relatively gullible - and therefore vulnerable.

Because trolls are unserious, unaccountable, and often anonymous, they always have an exit strategy.

It is easy for them to fall back on something being just a joke. Repercussions stay low. The getaway remains easy.

For the target, however, the emotional cost can prove quite high.

It is a self-reinforcing trap.

Trolls study their targets and identify pressure points: chords to strike. They find whatever gets on someone’s nerves and press it repeatedly. If he chooses to engage, the target will eventually overreact.

To the troll, it is all a joke. He loses no composure.

But the target does.

As that happens, his reaction turns into new ammunition. The image of the target is now blemished, as another flaw has been exposed: sensitivity. The troll has granted more material to work with.

This way, the target gets stuck in a vicious cycle.

Jest is the troll’s main weapon.

It lowers his perceived investment and raises the target’s. The two parties might face off, but it is always an unfair game. The target is often sincere, but to the troll it is all a big joke.

He provokes, exits, then repeats.

Trolls and satirists are not the same.

This is worth mentioning.

The two can seem similar at first. Satire, however, has value. Sometimes, people in positions of power should be checked; their absurdity should be lampooned.

Both have hints of ruthlessness. But the difference lies in accountability.

A true satirist will always stand behind his jokes; a troll will not.

Satirists play a public truth-game: their jokes bring real problems to light. Typically, they criticize bad-faith actors. And when pressed, the satirist answers for what he puts out in the world.

As a result of their work, the bigger picture is clarified, not muddied.

Trolls do the opposite.

They press buttons for the sake of pressing buttons, and muddy the waters. While satire pressures bad-faith actors into good-faith behaviour, trolling achieves the opposite. It tempts good-faith actors into bad-faith behaviour: self-righteousness, tantrums, and even calls for censorship.

Satire punishes phoniness, but trolling punishes sincerity.

To discern the two, a few characteristics are relevant:

The satirist defends what he puts forth; the troll does not. The satirist gives his target a fair hearing if they respond in good faith; the troll does not. The satirist intends to highlight the truth; the troll intends to provoke a reaction.

These are important factors.

The social effect of trolling is corrosive.

It is toxic culturally. The most influential trolls on the internet do not just turn emotional pain into entertainment. They make a living doing so, drawing clicks, clout, and currency.

As it becomes normalized, trolling can become deeply unhealthy to society.

To trolls, sincerity merely provides an opportunity for mockery.

They erode the breathing room good-faith actors have in public discourse. Great satirists, by contrast, own their jokes. They target frauds, not anyone who bites.

A healthy discourse lampoons phoniness, not honest intentions. Sadly, if it were up to the trolls, the latter would be viewed entirely as cringe.

Going down that road is a slippery slope. If no space is left for the earnest, no space is left for the honest.

And without honesty, there can be no honest standard: nothing to live by.

Learning can feel like dying.

It explains the idea of growing pains. Humans have an innate ability to let their ideas die instead of themselves. But that typically is accompanied by a fair share of discomfort.

Any new insight requires that we sacrifice our previous view of the world.

Learning is not purely about gaining new knowledge.

When a person acquires new information, they must typically forfeit something old. Maybe they must let go of wrong preconceptions or admit to former gaps in their knowledge. Either way, something previously present in their mind will disappear.

As the new comes in, the old goes out.

An all-too-human quality explains this.

One of our distinct abilities is to sacrifice our convictions instead of ourselves. Other animals, while learning, are more vulnerable to making fatal mistakes. We are somewhat special.

We can test ideas in the realm of thought, rather than reality itself. That allows us to figure out what works and what does not without risking serious harm.

The more cautious among us entertain false beliefs, test them, see them fail, and then try again unscathed.

Being proven wrong can hurt sometimes.

It just hurts in a different way.

Some beliefs are held lightly. It costs us little to let go of them. Other beliefs, however, are load-bearing.

It may occur that we tie our identity itself to something we believe. A romantic may believe his muse returns his affections; a scientist may stake his career on a hypothesis; and a Communist may believe his revolution will soon redeem him.

Such beliefs, when refuted, feel like emotional death.

In this case, convictions have become entangled with meaning, purpose, or identity. When heavily invested-in beliefs are dispelled, the experience is not mere correction. It can imply the end of one’s sense of meaning.

In this predicament, a person is forced to not only let go of a belief, but also of the identity it sustained.

Attachment to thoughts can be that intense.

The mind has a tendency to control reality, instead of letting it be. Dogmatic beliefs are instruments of this impulse. They reduce uncertainty, and thus anxiety, but at the cost of a connection to actual reality.

Because we cling to our beliefs, we do not accept corrective feedback. We prefer unreliable answers over no answers.

It is how we manage discomfort.

Sometimes, unfortunately, our core beliefs must die.

Then, our shield against reality falls away. Once again, we are exposed to the discomforts of the real world. With our reconnection to reality comes a reconnection to the reality of danger.

We become aware of threats to our lives, and hence our mortality.

It can feel as if the danger lies in the death of our ideas. But that is wrong. If we are to last ourselves, our ideas will have to die from time to time.

To survive, we must discard any wrong worldview.

It is somewhat paradoxical.

We make wrong assumptions to protect ourselves against feelings of vulnerability. If we never revise those assumptions, we continue acting on false premises. That may very well get us killed.

So the thing that feels like death is often what saves us.

From an adaptive point of view, it is favorable that part of us dies, rather than all of us. The death of an idea stings, but it is a controlled sacrifice. That prevents a final one.

Hence, a well-adjusted human being is engaged in a constant process of selective dying.

Lightly held beliefs can be released without serious cost. Beliefs at the core of our being, however, are different. And refuting them proves far more destructive.

Ideas should be shed the way we shed skin. When assumptions are only clung to on the surface, they are easily discarded - and revised.

Living true to that principle makes the pain of trial and error manageable, rather than catastrophic.

To grow, we must die.

But we must also choose what parts of ourselves survive.

Greater understanding implies the death of old beliefs. That we cannot control. But we can control whether that fact enriches life or ends it.

By accepting dying as a precondition for growth, we can keep correcting our direction; and that might very well be what saves us in the end.

Great stories have a gravitational pull.

They compel us to listen, and often teach us something new. The best tales are known to provide two things: entertainment and a good lesson. Those two appear intertwined.

The best stories tend to make us wiser; why is that?

Relatability explains a part of it.

When you recognize yourself in a character, imaginary events begin to feel relevant to you personally. Suddenly, you relate to slaying monsters, casting spells, or exploring faraway lands. But that is not the only reason fiction can be so gripping.

Emotional stakes can spark curiosity like nothing else. They make us ache to know whether the story will end well or in ruin.

It begins to feel as if when characters win, so do we.

Our investment in fiction allows for its moral to be transmitted.

Preachiness is direct, but unelegant. Delivering a sermon works in church, not on stage. When a story paints human nature vividly, moral lessons naturally bubble up instead.

Without making it explicit, it will tell you something about choice and consequence. When you can show, there is no need to tell.

The most beautiful lessons speak for themselves.

Audiences, when free to, will always draw their own conclusion - so you might as well play into it. Fiction’s most powerful truths are rarely delivered by command. More often, they surface through implied wisdom.

If you accurately portray how people act, you will inevitably portray how they act in accordance with their own well-being.

Stories somehow fuse reality and imagination.

Narrative structure (character, conflict, development) bridges both. The best stories are fictional, but they accurately dramatize a concrete blueprint of human nature. They combine a would-be with an is.

We write “there once was…”, while there never was (and yet there is!)

Imagination - both in the creator and the recipient - is to a story what fuel is to an engine. Paradoxically, the more what you imagine squares with reality (heroism, struggle, triumph…), the more people will relate to it. Stories provide a distilled version of what life is actually like.

They are a shortcut to intense living.

By telling stories, we simulate lived realities. The stories are not real, but their structures resemble how our world works. The wisdom of the best stories applies to reality.

They are simultaneously real and not real.

Plus, it is strategically advantageous to rehearse reality. A fictional tale allows you to extract its wisdom without suffering the pain of trial and error. It is low-cost, high-reward.

This is how inspiration leads to self-actualization.

Stories illuminate the extraordinary. But by doing so, they provide us with something to carry back into ordinary life. They bridge the ineffable and the everyday.

Wonder is immediate, yet hard to define; that is why stories feel like magic.

Fiction entertains and enriches.

The good ones are the ones we want to listen to. When we want to listen, we remember what we were taught. For the best fiction, enjoyment and learning are not rivals, but twin effects.

No great societies have not told stories. Imagination is at the foundation of dreaming: wishing to achieve great things.

At a low price, the tales we tell provide all we need.

Politician has become a somewhat dirty word.

Although that is true, history shows there have been more than a few good ones. If we accept that, what separates them from the others? Politics often feels corrupt in itself, but some leaders do manage to treat power as a tool rather than a prize.

How are such figures best identified?

The untrustworthy politician, of course, is a stereotype.

And that is for good reason. The slick huckster with a big smile and even bigger promises is an image modern man is all too familiar with. “Good politician” has come to sound like an oxymoron.

Still, examples do exist.

Politicians are vessels.

They are conduits for whatever they propagate: positive or negative.

For better or worse, ideals, ambitions, and interests are channeled through them. Their morality depends not on whether they succeed, but on what they are vessels for. Good politicians are, simply, a vessel for something good.

They carry the public good with a certain restraint.

A malign politician is the opposite: a contaminated vessel.

He typically presents a pretty picture, but uses his position for personal gain (or maybe even destructive ends). The key distinction lies in his approach. To the ill-intended public servant, power is not a means; it is an end in itself.

The good politician treats power as an instrument. The bad one seeks power for its own sake.

When personal interests conflict with societal ones, the difference in character becomes evident.

If push comes to shove, a moral politician sacrifices personal gain for the public good. The malign one does the reverse. They seem alike, but are opposites.

It is tempting, but unfair to lump them together.

There is something paradoxical about public servants.

A football player who plays a lot of football becomes a better football player. A baker who bakes a lot of pastries becomes a better baker. A politician who spends a lot of time politicking, however, becomes insufferable.

As he schemes, manoeuvres, and manipulates, he trains himself in the art of nastiness. Meanwhile, he neglects to produce anything fruitful for anyone.

This is how politicians distract themselves from their actual job.

When the process of seeking and maintaining power becomes self-referential, an end in itself, its justification is nullified. Even if the end of your politicking is worthwhile, it typically involves dirty work. This is why the term carries negative connotations.

Gandhi, MLK, and Nelson Mandela were all politicians in a sense, yet we refrain from calling them that out of reverence.

George Washington, similarly, is worth examining. Widely considered to be the greatest American statesman, he treated power as a burden. To him, it was a temporary means, rather than an end.

When push came to shove, he abandoned the highest office. That, if not at the core of his greatness, accounted for a great part of it.

His legacy lay in his character, which allowed him to resist the pull of the will to power.

Good politicians do exist.

Even if we would rather not call them so, it remains true.

They are defined not only by the kindness of their intentions but by their ability to resist the temptation of power. Good politicians keep the power bestowed upon them directed outward: towards real problems. They do not accumulate it for its own sake.

The game of politics incentivizes its players to fall prey to the will to power, but the best among them do not budge.

Genuinely serving the public good, thus, requires fortitude of will. But figures who resisted corruption to the benefit of all have existed. It has been demonstrated that power can be exercised with genuine concern for others.

It is hard, yet not impossible.

The good ones are rare, but real.

Some politicians are, indeed, relatively clean vessels: champions of noble causes. And those who navigate the realm of politics, despite its many pitfalls, deserve public approval. Washington proved such service exists; others did too.

For society to endure, and not to fall prey to corruption, it must keep producing those who quell it.

The word friend is thrown around easily nowadays.

But what does it truly mean? Most of our relationships feel thinner than true friendship. There is a difference to be made between someone you get along with and someone who stands by you through thick and thin.

True friendship, it appears, is a rarer jewel.

But still, the term is casually applied.

We use it for a wide range of relationships, including social media acquaintances. Online friends are of an especially superficial kind. They have little in common with the bonds we rely on to get through life.

We are often friendly, but not often friends.

True friendship survives distance, disagreement, and difficulty.

Whenever a true friend is not physically present, the bond remains. If far away, you still have each other’s best interests at heart. When reunited, you weather the bad, celebrate the good, and steer each other gently toward better outcomes.

Superficial kindness has an off-switch. For friends to honor their relationship, they will have to be present when push comes to shove.

It has an unconditional component.

Loyalty is a base ingredient. That is why for friendship to remain true, it must survive strife, even between the friends themselves. The other person’s long-term flourishing must remain an end goal, and therefore never forgotten.

This is how it stands the test of time.

So, for true friendship, there is no easy off-switch.

If a friend is in genuine need of help, and you can deliver it, you will feel obliged to do so - even if it costs you. But there is a paradox. Even though such bonds imply unconditional goodwill, proper support remains conditional.

If you wish a person well, you cannot enable their worst behaviour.

If they are to take responsibility for their friendship, both friends must take responsibility for their lives.

If they do, they take ownership of their past actions and their future improvement. That makes mutual help typically productive; both parties will use it to improve. But if one of the two fails, the other’s help comes to enable harm rather than growth.

The question is whether your friend is grateful for support or feels entitled to it.

Sometimes, people become bitter, self-destructive, and harmful - especially to those closest to them. When that occurs, true friends will maintain goodwill, but they must set boundaries if they are to survive. Even your friend is not allowed to rob you.

If you are left with nothing, you have nothing to offer.

Sometimes, we must restrain ourselves from helping someone else because if we do, we help their destruction.

As an unfortunate result thereof, the friendship will grow dormant. But even then, the underlying commitment remains. The relationship only whithers if the friend does; in the meantime, it remains in slumber.

You may remain committed to their well-being. It is just that you cannot sustain it now.

But that is better than enabling harm.

True friendship requires openness and judgment.

It is one of life’s cherished goods precisely because it is terribly difficult. In our relationships, we see each other from up close. We witness the most hideous aspects of human nature.

Unsurprisingly, friends invite appreciation and unease.

Ultimately, friendship is about goodwill.

Goodwill comes in two shapes: positive and negative. Positively, we must foster each other’s best. Negatively, we must not feed each other’s worst. If you offer loyalty, you deserve accountability.

To care for someone unconditionally means to encourage them conditionally: only if they are aiming upwards. You cannot have anyone’s back if they might put a dagger in yours.

Since friendship is precious, it must be carefully guarded - sometimes from itself.

While lies provide short-term solutions, they often create long-term problems.

It feels like the smart thing to do, until it really does not. The truth tends to come back around. And even the cleverest of lies eventually tend to crumble under the weight of reality.

The behaviour of liars reveals something important about how human beings function.

To lie means to take something you know not to be true and assert it as truth.

For the liar, the intention is to deceive. It offers him immediate advantages: smooth social interactions, avoidance of conflict, and occasionally, winning. It is like a quick, low-cost fix to life’s biggest problems.

But in the long term, the problems tend to pile up.

Lying gets harder and harder.

As you tell a lie, you will typically have to tell a second one to cover for the first.

Then, the complexity of your assertions begins to compound. The truth is irreconcilable with what you espouse; so protecting your claims will require some serious rhetorical acrobatics. This demands effort.

Eventually, you get stuck in a continuous battle with reality.

One lie requires another lie, and then another, and then another. An ever-growing structure of falsehoods must be conjured up. To maintain it, you must remember every detail, manage inconsistencies, and deflect criticism.

In the meantime, reality keeps on knocking. Contrary evidence surfaces, people talk, and sustaining your deception becomes more difficult the more you defend it.

The liar gradually loses ground.

Even the most intelligent among them - who weave the most intricate webs of lies - usually face consequences. The mental bandwidth of a genius has limits, too. When those are hit, they cave in.

The universe abhors a falsehood.

Every time a lie is uttered, a timer starts ticking. Whether within an hour or a century, all is exposed. The best lies are more durable, but never imperishable.

A great falsehood will only ensure a more devastating fall.

When discovered, there is often no way back.

For the brazen liar, trust is hard to recover. For the remorseless one, it is typically impossible. Recovery requires honest remorse, and if he shows it, no one will believe it to be so.

Hence, he ends up isolated. Because of the breach of trust, there is no ability to participate within his peer group: a requirement for long-term success.

To put it mildly, he ends up in an unfavourable position.

This shows how trust is fundamental for effective coordination between individuals.

When people know or suspect there is a liar in their midst, their guard goes up. Then, they protect themselves rather than work together. For this reason, one or two consistent liars can render an entire group of people unproductive.

They break down the potential for reciprocal alignment.

Humans are wired for truthful cooperation.

That is best based on reliable, straightforward information.

Truth is the foundation of cooperative work for that reason. Seeking it aligns us with reality, and it enables us to succeed. Systematic deception, on the other hand, undermines how humans coexist and achieve their goals.

It erodes cooperative structures.

In the end, the liar fights a losing battle.

Lies are inherently hostile to reality, trust, and long-term success. This is why they are untrustworthy tools. For group flourishing, mutual trust must be ensured.

To win the long game, playing it truthfully is the only viable option.

Socialism, since its inception, has been the subject of fiery debate.

Some argue it is the only just political system. Others say it is inherently totalitarian. Throughout history, the socialist impulse has taken many different forms.

What we know: socialism has crossed the line many times, producing catastrophe. But the question remains when it moves from arguable naivety to disaster.

It is worth examining.

The term socialism emerged in the early 19th century.

Conceptually, however, it is much older.

In his book Utopia (1516), Thomas More provides an early literary vision of it. The book describes an island society in which property rights are abolished. King Utopus, the founder of Utopia, has decreed the end of private property; its citizens share all of their possessions.

Utopus’ design existed, according to the book, to eliminate greed, inequality, and conflict.

Although fictitious, this is an early account of socialism.

One might argue that socialism, as an idea, may be pursued in two ways: with the voluntary agreement of its subjects, and without it. People might choose to share goods because they want to, in which case we can accurately describe it as bottom-up. Otherwise, people are forced to do so.

In the latter case, it is inherently coercive: top-down.

Historically, there have been examples of bottom-up socialism.

Some socialist societies of the past relied on voluntary participation. By doing so, they self-selected for true believers: those eager to participate. Others were free to leave.

The kibbutzes in Israel are an example hereof.

They had success, although modest. But they relied on deep, shared values. And because they remained small-scale, they remained manageable.

Voluntary commitment was key to their results.

Coercive socialism is fundamentally different.

Since it must ensure equal distribution, it must enforce centralized economic planning. The justification given by those in charge is need. Drastic action, supposedly, is required to make a dire situation better quickly.

In practice, things rarely get better.

Coercive socialism requires abolishing (or at least severely restricting) property rights. As a result, incentives for wealth production plummet. Shortly thereafter, widespread poverty ensues.

Historical outcomes often included massive stagnation. That, in turn, causes widespread human suffering.

Citizens, then, are not only no longer free; their stomachs are empty as ever.

Bottom-up socialism can work, but it remains paradoxical.

Ironically, the socialist societies that were (somewhat) functional respected individuals: their right to keep their private property, and leave.

Bottom-up socialism, as far as it existed, did just that. It allowed others to contribute if they wished. Those who did not wish to be part of the project were not involved.

Coercive socialism, on the other hand, fully denies the right to refuse. It imposes collective ownership through force on a group of individuals who may not be eager to live as such.

The first allows people to share, the other demands it.

It may be concluded that socialism, if vaguely defensible, has regard for consent: the individual's wish to align with the cause.

In More’s book, the abolition of private property was a top-down decision. King Utopus decided for the people. So it did not emerge purely from voluntary agreement.

Even in the first Utopia ever conceived, it seems, socialism had to be imposed; that should tell us something.

The voluntary forms of socialism tended to remain small-scale. They self-selected for those committed to the cause. Large-scale attempts, almost exclusively, have required coercion.

The “functional” socialist communities succeeded largely not because they denied property rights; they succeeded because they respected them. No one was coerced into living in a way they did not wish to.

Although perhaps softer, this approach ensured those who did stay were actual believers.

To succeed, if ever, socialism should remain social.

History shows that, whenever vaguely successful, it is grounded in the consent of its participants.

It has proven itself modestly viable in limited contexts. Larger socialist projects, which rely on coercion, rarely have - if ever. Aside from crossing a moral line, they typically produce economic disaster.

At least partially, that is because it involves individuals who do not want to be involved. To remain prosocial, the socialist must remain cooperative.

Choosing to use force instead would make him, ironically, anti-social.

Space travel speaks to our imagination.

At the same time, it is perhaps the hardest thing ever attempted by mankind. Why are we compelled to do something so hostile to how we evolved? Humans emerged on a life-friendly planet, yet we dream of conquering the void.

Our drive to reach the stars reveals something about how we are wired.

Exploring the universe has an almost spiritual feel to it.

Space travel should not come naturally to us. We evolved entirely on Earth’s surface: an environment that, by comparison, is friendly to our species. Outer space, on the other hand, is hostile in almost every way: vacuous, extremely hot, extremely cold, and full of radiation.

Taming it would require a triumph never achieved before: an awe-inspiring technological achievement.

Still, some of us are crazy enough to want to accomplish it.

Why do humans “gravitate” to outer space?

First of all, it is fair to say we have an embedded exploratory instinct. It led our ancestors out of Africa, across oceans, and into every inhabitable niche. Leaving your tribe to start a new one, when successful, is an effective evolutionary strategy.

You can apply that to interplanetary travel. Mass extinction events occur; should they happen again, a colony on Mars would save the species.

Space travel is a way of spreading our eggs across multiple cosmic baskets.

Aside from that, it provides meaning.

Something about space is transcendental. Expanding consciousness into another realm, one not yet inhabited, may be a deep source of purpose. Anyone who participates is bound to feel like they are part of something important: something larger than themselves.

Those involved will find a sense of common destiny.

But there are darker currents underneath.

The desire to leave Earth can be ill-informed.

Sometimes, the wish to leave our planet is a form of escapism: leaving not to reach a new destination, but to escape one’s roots. Some of those involved in colonizing Mars do so because they have given up on Earth. They want to start clean elsewhere.

Their motto is not “reach for the stars”; it is “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore.”

But inhabiting a new planet will not magically solve the issues that plague us on Earth. Any society, even on Mars, will consist of human beings who bring with them the myriad of flaws inherent to our nature. Mars, with its extreme cold, thin atmosphere, and sky-high radiation, is no less difficult; it will be Earth on hard mode.

The next planets in line are far more hostile than our life-tuned home. Terraforming them will be a greater struggle than settling Earth ever could be.

We were made for this planet, so if we cannot make it work here, we are unlikely to make it work anywhere else.

The urge to venture out into space is not all cowardice.

But it certainly is not all courage.

The sword cuts both ways. It channels humanity’s highest aspirations: expanding life, following curiosity, and pushing natural boundaries. As much as that is true, it also illustrates our tendency for escapism, avoidance, and denial.

Humans are a frontier species: restless, unwilling to remain bound to the forces that cradled them, but to move forward, they must remember where they come from.

The motivations for space travel should be positive.

The colonization of other planets ought to be motivated by a love for humanity, not a desire to escape it.

As humans venture into space, they will inevitably take themselves along for the ride. All the problems we cause on our home planet, we will cause elsewhere. To keep our nature from doing us in, we will have to own it, not flee from it.

Even in outer space, humans will remain flesh and blood: Earthly creatures.

Religion has a stabilizing influence on people’s lives.

It is not just about belief without evidence. It is about finding a pause. Religion allows us to reflect on something deeper than everyday concerns.

It provides an opportunity to return to what matters most.

The roots of the word reveal something important about it.

It stems from relegere (to read again, to observe) or religare (to bind back, to bind together); both have influenced how the word has been interpreted over the years. This implies an active, recurring process of returning to what matters most. It represents a pause for shared reflection on the meaning of life.

And religion is inherently reflective. It addresses the human capacity to exercise agency by periodically re-orienting one’s life to what truly matters.

It provides a moment to step back from the act of living to contemplate the act of living itself.

Religion is a collectivized form of personal reflection.

It provides communal reinforcement, shared structures, and a transcendent reference point. All these elements serve the same purpose: giving self-reflection greater weight. That means religion implies a communal commitment to an otherwise individual process.

It is the agreement to exercise humanity’s natural tendency to pause and reflect together.

Muslim’s pilgrimage to Mecca is a vivid example of religion’s roots.

During Hajj, millions participate in the ritual of tawaf: walking around a single sacred object together. Their circling of the Kaaba is the physical translation of a deeper psychological reality. Individuals and generations return together, and revolve around what is considered most transcendent.

As a powerful focal point, the Kaaba unites Muslims worldwide.

Tawaf represents both an individual and a collective act.

It is about binding people to one communal nucleus. Such rituals give the in-group coherence, purpose, and a sense of moral gravity. They bind people to something stable and, in their eyes, transcendent.

Its participants anchor themselves on something outside themselves.

Humans are communal creatures, even if the big questions of life plague us each individually.

Hence, the part of life that concerns itself with discovering its meaning is in part a communal enterprise. Religion addresses the hunger for shared spirituality. To provide hope in a dark world by safeguarding something beyond immediate pain or satisfaction.

If you want to orient yourself to what calls you most, you might as well join others who are attempting the same.

Sports bring us together.

When the game is on, people who have never met before sing songs as they embrace. Rivals come together on the field. And even in their competition, they find mutual respect.

Something about playing together suspends division. Even if it is just for a while.

What does this reveal?

During the World Cup, whole nations pause to watch.

The event may be nation-based. But this tribalism is transcended by the shared experience of it. If your own country is knocked out of the tournament, you may have been so charmed by another that you root for it instead.

The unifying quality of games is real.

Sports are socially acceptable play for adults.

As kids bond through games, so do we. They create what is described as a magic circle: a reality in which every participant is involved in the ruleset, the stakes, and the outcome. Everyone has a role.

Inside the circle, everyday differences are abandoned.

The shared identity that remains is merely: player.

Identities that may normally divide those involved are suspended: for now. Even bitter foes will have to cooperate if they are to win. And even the competitive aspect of games takes place within a frame of cooperation: everyone agrees to adhere to the rules and do their best.

Sports, quite strangely, turn competitive drive into a source of unity.

Several mechanisms define it.

As everyone voluntarily agrees to play the game, they grow naturally involved. It is like an equal playing field where the status contest of daily life is set aside. Those involved are temporarily judged only on skill, effort, and teamwork.

Failure may be consequential within the game, but it is unimportant outside of it.

The stakes are simulated. Participants do their best to win, but if they do not, no real consequences materialize. They can give it all they have, but they stand to lose nothing.

It is reminiscent of the knightly tournaments of the Middle Ages. The aggression was present, but it remained civilized because of how it was channeled.

They gamified their desire to win, fostering social unity in the process.

Sports have a vital function.

They channel competitive drive into something that unifies more than it divides. During a game, the game is all that matters. Other differences (political, religious, or otherwise) can be forgotten, at least for an hour or two.

It transcends divisions.

Across the chasms of modern society, the magic circle unites us.

Sometimes, the connection humans crave is stronger than the big questions that keep them apart. When we play, we create a magical space in which, just for a moment, we can all participate. Life may never be perfect, but a game can get pretty close.

Humans, so long as they agree to work together, thrive, even if it is all over when the whistle blows.

Aggression has some ugly connotations.

They are hard-won. It is the driving force behind war and all the calamity it brings. However, it has also played its part in society moving forward.

The root of aggression means simply to step forward. As the fuel of ambition, it may be intrinsically tied to progress.

So is there an upside to it?

Nowadays, it is a loaded word.

We speak of it mostly in negative terms. In modern discourse, it is associated almost exclusively with violence, domination, and cruelty. But this pejorative view is historically uncommon.

The Latin aggredi gave birth to aggression. It means to step toward, to advance upon, or to approach with force.

Some serious societal ills, like poverty, ask for willful engagement.

When channeled appropriately, aggression may fill a necessary niche.

Standing up against bullies, for example, requires some degree of forthrightness. Competition, perseverance, and achievement on the highest level all require a kind of relentless drive. These are the forces behind societal growth.

Arguably, aggression is morally neutral: a biological force that can be harnessed for good and for bad.

If so, its morality is determined by how (and on what) it is enacted.

A distinction should be made. Healthy aggression is typically precise. It only unleashes itself on unequivocally harmful things, and even then, minimizes collateral damage.

Unhealthy aggression, conversely, is reckless. It makes no attempt at self-control and revels in the damage it inflicts.

Both are forms of the same impulse, but in profound moral opposition.

The world, sadly, is imperfect.

Suffering, injustice, and cruelty are not only real; the world would be better without them. Contained aggression is the primary mechanism for achieving their removal. It follows that it is not only warranted, but sometimes indispensable.

Without adversarial engagement, the bad cannot be undone, and the good cannot be safeguarded.

Because aggression is a precondition for problem-removal, it is deeply intertwined with problem-solving.

Problems, by definition, call for removal. Otherwise, they would not be problematic. That means aggression has a clear purpose: quelling the bad to make life better.

Its proper aim is to undo negative things.

It could be argued that the foremost thing to undo is the bad within.

Because to master yourself means to overcome your own destructive tendencies. If you are too busy making it worse, it is impossible to improve the world. To further the common good means to confront whatever delays it, and that may include ourselves.

So long as conflict is directed towards the negative, it is positive.

Let us assume the counterargument.

We might say that aggression is unequivocally bad.

If that were true, aggression against aggression would be justified. That implies some aggression is good. And so the argument undercuts itself.

No matter how tempting, it is untenable to condemn aggression in its entirety.

Our modern condemnation of it is historically unprecedented.

It is largely a consequence of the safety we enjoy. The military (preparedness for) aggression that guarantees Western peace is far from our daily lives. But imagining it not to be part of life might be fatal.

It is a fundamental aspect of human existence. As we suppress it, we grow vulnerable to those who still carry it.

If channeled properly, aggression could be an asset.

A balanced society should not eliminate it. It should curtail it. Then it can be directed toward worthwhile ends, like peace.

Fire, if wielded with caution, leads to progress, not ruin.

Aggression destroys, but it also helps to create.

Since the universe can be unjust, it is a necessary part of human life. Hence, demonizing it is more dangerous than letting it loose. But like a horse with reins, it must be properly directed.

Sustaining human flourishing requires embracing and constraining the fire within.

Compassion is, broadly speaking, a virtue.

And it is one of humanity’s greatest assets. Its ability to bind people together cannot be overstated. Through compassion, human beings meaningfully connect: easing suffering and cultivating joy.

But it is not always a force for good. Connection can trap people in mutual dependency, which erodes their capacity to improve as individuals.

When does compassion turn toxic?

Compassion is rightfully celebrated.

It is a high moral impulse. However, it sometimes overshoots its adaptive range. Then it ends up hurting whatever it relates to.

Typically, compassion turns maladaptive when it prioritizes short-term comfort over long-term flourishing.

It shields people from the natural consequences of bad choices. If, instead of dealing with your own problems, a compassionate person always does it for you, you will lose your independence. Even worse, your destructive behaviours may continue indefinitely.

As compassion will ease your pain, you will never reap the consequences of your actions.

Healthy compassion maintains discernment.

It distinguishes between pain best remediated and pain that qualifies as necessary discomfort. Sometimes, it is a useful corrective mechanism. Pain may demonstrate the repercussions of a bad decision.

Compassion, when maladaptive, sabotages this feedback mechanism. It dulls reality’s corrective signals.

Individuals should not be rescued from discomforts they can address themselves.

If they are, their poor behaviour typically continues. In the long term, that wires them to be self-destructive. And their resilience atrophies.

The paradox is tragic. Toxic compassion may feel like a warm embrace, but it contributes to long-term incapacitation.

It worsens whoever it soothes.

Toxic compassion is like emotional heroin.

It instantly gratifies but proves profoundly harmful. Due to their historically unprecedented levels of comfort, modern societies are particularly vulnerable to this temptation. The more comfortable a culture, the lower its tolerance for hardship.

To endure, a culture must shoulder struggle.

Neglecting that duty leads to collective self-sedation.

Since no one takes ownership, hard truths are avoided. Personal accountability diminishes. People become more fragile.

The discipline that originally produced comfort is gradually hollowed out.

Thus, compassion warrants caution

It is a powerful, arguably central component of human existence. But with power comes responsibility. Wielding compassion requires wisdom.

Human beings should ease each other’s suffering, not avoid pain altogether.

Compassion gives and takes.

In its positive form, it is the driving force behind all human flourishing. Society cannot exist without it. But it also leads to problems.

If we grow too comfortable, it becomes a sedative. And it might lull us into an eternal slumber.

We must water the plants, but only those that want to grow.

Although the far left and far right rarely get along, there are some things they have in common.

The more extreme each gets, the more strongly they encroach upon freedom. This, in part, is referred to as Horseshoe Theory. But although it is an observed phenomenon, it is not fully clear what else the two have in common.

What hidden principles draw extremists of opposing sides towards each other?

At the top-center of the horseshoe is the moderate liberal position.

Centrist liberals respect individual rights. They tolerate dissent, which allows for contradiction. To ensure power is equally shared by individuals, they administer checks and balances.

Because this center is neither ultra-conservative nor ultra-progressive, it is oriented towards incrementalism: steady progress rather than revolution.

To the (extremist) center at the bottom, this is opposite

The far left and the far right do not respect the individual, but celebrate the collective. They rarely tolerate dissent. And most of their regimes enforce total orthodoxy (or at least try to).

As the left of the horseshoe is opposite to the right, the bottom is opposite to the top.

Collectivism alone does not explain extremism.

It is anti-individualist, but that is not its essence. Its essence is encroachment upon the agency of others. It stems from a kind of hubris: the false conviction that one is wise enough to tell others what to do.

Extremists believe that as a result of their superior knowledge, they must impose their vision upon society.

The left might justify coercion through social justice, overthrowing oppressors, or historical inevitability. The right might do the same through claims of national destiny, cultural preservation, and traditional order. The underlying pattern, however, remains identical:

We know what is best, so comply.

Although often in fierce competition, leftists and rightists share an underlying vision.

They foster the idea of a righteous political wave that washes away the old and ushers in the new. Radicals move as one. What is in their way is either crushed or converted.

This explains why they are anti-individualist. The collective goal is elevated over the individual.

On a grand scale, extremism strips away agency, replacing freedom with control.

A distinct human tendency corresponds with the need for control.

It is the flight from the burden of having freedom. The moral certainty of collectivists is explained through the same mechanism. It quiets the mind to find comfort in a redemptive grand narrative.

Authoritarianism tempts us to escape the deepest trials of existence itself.

Hence, the authoritarian left and the authoritarian right are not true opposites.

They are competing versions of the same impulse: the wish to play God in the lives of others. Their ideological costume is mainly a vehicle towards what they truly worship: power. This brings them at odds with the liberal center, whose essence is to reject this tendency.

Ultimately, it is about freedom versus control.

Control is at the bottom of the horseshoe.

Radicals seek control over the state, over society, over their neighbors.

They are characterized by a readiness to usurp the agency of others. To disregard their free will. To believe it acceptable to alter their lives in the name of some ideal.

Freedom, to the totalitarian, is a technical hindrance. A mere obstacle to his utopia.

But who ever flourished on someone else’s volition?

Throughout history (and religion), the saviour figure reemerges.

Such a person promises us deliverance from wicked things. But is it healthy to rely on someone else to such a degree? The expectation that someone else will redeem you may be an obstacle to your own flourishing.

When is the saviour a useful archetype, and when not?

He appears chosen.

The word Messiah comes from the Hebrew mashiach: “anointed one”.

This echoes the modern term: chosen one. He is someone with a special destiny. His talents allow him to rescue others from peril.

In other words, the saviour is the right person at the right time. He is someone especially equipped to confront an existential threat, restore order, and rescue the culture they are a part of.

Whether that is a divine calling or just some remarkable talent might only be a matter of how you look at things.

But it means the saviour, at least as an idea, has a legitimate purpose.

In its benign form, he is a powerful focal point of hope. Good leadership is typically much-needed in any culture. Indeed, some leaders mobilize society in a positive direction by being someone worth following.

That is nothing but productive.

But the saviour figure has a dark side.

Others may project superhuman powers onto him. And even worse, he may be tempted to believe he truly possesses such powers. In this case, the situation changes.

Expectations are no longer summarized by: “help us slay this dragon.” Instead, they become: “save me, although I’m unwilling to save myself.”

The saviour’s followers might look to him to solve the problems they refuse to.

Herein lies a fatal trap.

We see it in religion (Jesus will make me whole), in politics (this leader will solve all my problems), and in romance (this person will complete me). Sadly, such expectations may spring from a lack of internal faith. Believing in a Messiah is not worth much if you do not believe you are capable of following one properly.

The latter indicates a counterproductive approach.

On top of that, it justifies an infantile lifestyle. If you lay all responsibility at the feet of another, you abdicate it entirely. This may provide temporary relief, but in the long term, it will leave you disempowered.

You have implicitly forfeited the ability to make life better.

The consequences of that choice remain yours.

Expecting others to do things for you without offering anything in return is technically entitlement. Saviours can and will redeem society from a collective threat. However, they cannot realistically assume agency over others.

No one can choose to improve your life but you.

The saviour figure may be useful.

But, depending on its context, he may just as well cause catastrophy.

His effect on human flourishing depends on how he chooses to act. He may humbly provide a crucial service at a crucial moment. But he cannot save those who are unwilling to save themselves, and if he tries, he fosters codependence.

Even Messianic figures have their limits.

The fool plays an interesting part in society.

Back in the day, there was the jester. Nowadays, we have comedians. But why does this archetype so often recur in human culture?

It is worth exploring

Fool archetypes emerge both in history and mythology.

Trickster gods, clowns, and online memers: these figures all have something to tell us. But it can be difficult to understand precisely what. They enjoy some kind of special position in the community.

Fools have a unique ability to engage with touchy subjects without getting into trouble. They break taboos, but often pay no price for it.

It appears they fulfil a function others cannot.

Their playfulness makes them unique.

Through play, the fool keeps things light, even while dealing with the darkest of subjects. There is no such thing as serious humour. It is free-spirited by definition.

To the fool, play is like a pressure valve. It allows him to expose the flaws in himself, others, and society at large in a way that remains bearable.

In the company of a fool, it is impossible to be overly serious.

This is the gift of the fool: to himself and others.

One of its uses is to restore sanity. Dark comedy is a tool. It illuminates what is repressed, painful, or taboo, and integrates it back into our conscious mind.

Neuroscience confirms laughter has therapeutic value. It lowers stress, eases pain, and strengthens immunity.

The fool is a kind of healer.

But equally, he can be silly just for the sake of being silly.

Monty Python, for example, is not so much about addressing the darkness as about finding the light in absurdity. The goal is simply to entertain. To find delight for no apparent reason.

Hence, the fool thrives in both the light and the dark: when things are good and when they could be better.

One of his biggest strengths is subduing all pretenses in the room.

The fool has abandoned the need to appear flawless, which makes him honest. Moreover, he delivers a joyful admission of his flaws: like ignorance, clumsiness, and inadequacy. Everyone shares these realities, but many of us conceal them.

The fool, quite heroically, goes first in revealing them. He celebrates his shortcomings with bells on.

By reminding us that no one is complete, the fool creates permission to be imperfectly human.

That permission allows the rest of us to breathe.

In the presence of the fool, people relax. Humor achieves that. It is the fool’s favourite tool: light, fast, and completely disarming.

This is why laughter is his emotional signature. It signals the fool was successful.

It is like he creates the elasticity for consciousness to expand.

To learn, you have to admit where you fall short. This is a precondition for growth. Without first acknowledging your limitations, you cannot evolve beyond them.

Through foolishness (or the admission thereof), we transform our ignorance from a source of shame into an opportunity for progress.

Only the fool permits us to be imperfect.

Hence, only he can provide us with the opportunity to be better.

By finding the humour in our limitations, he dissolves the painful reality of them. That creates the space needed to grow beyond our flaws. Thus, true laughter is never frivolous.

It is a key ingredient for human flourishing.

Extremists often think in collectives.

To get into power, they make promises of collective harmony, equality, or purity. And to succeed, they have to sell their visions well. But their efforts frequently end in catastrophe.

How come?

Both the far left and the far right tend towards collectivism.

They elevate the importance of the group over the individual. And they prioritize the common good over individual interests. The former is supposedly the highest thing to aim for, while the latter is selfish.

Collectivists see society as a single thing that can be engineered toward a single purpose: the common good.

Their thinking has a deep flaw.

The minds of individuals are distinct. Therefore, any individual typically knows what is good for them much more than anyone else. This is called the knowledge problem.

No central planner can understand all citizens as well as they can themselves. Hence, a million separate human beings are more effective at managing themselves than a single government could ever be.

To do the opposite would mean prioritizing the knowledge of the few (the government) over the many (the people).

This reveals a contradiction. Collectivists brand themselves as the great equalizers of power. True equality, however, would mean allocating decision-making rights equally. That means allowing for individual choice, which implies free markets.

Because collectivists are naturally against such freedom of decision-making, they centralize power in the hands of a new elite that claims to represent the common good.

The government then lacks the knowledge to rule effectively.

Still, it hoards power anyway.

If they disregard the dignity of individual lives, central planners go off the rails. They misallocate resources, waste talent, and quell productivity. Coercion becomes the new operating system.

As a result, the people and the powers grow alienated from one another.

Mutual trust then evaporates. Collectivist leaders enforce hierarchy because, without it, they cannot picture themselves undoing it. If that does not make sense, it is because it cannot make sense.

In the long term, the brave new societies of collectivists typically prove more unequal than the ones they overthrew.

Collectivism must be enforced if it is not to dissolve itself.

To justify enforcing collectivism, someone must have superior knowledge of the common good.

Ironically, that person stands out. He or she is special and supposedly entitled to special privileges. That is unequal by definition.

Collectivists cannot truly share power without dividing it among individuals. And they cannot enforce collectivist ideals without creating the hierarchies they claim to abolish.

This is the core problem of collectivism.

It explains why failure is not an exception, but a recurring outcome for collectivists. They refuse to accept the reality of dispersed knowledge. And they refuse to acknowledge their own inability to change this reality.

Humans, unfortunately for them, are unique creatures with diverging ambitions.

This is why ideologies that promise to abolish hierarchy so often create steeper versions of them.

Governments cannot decentralize power without forfeiting most of it. And they cannot effectively govern individuals without respecting their self-understanding as superior. Any authority that does not acknowledge these truths will trip over them at some point.

A good leader knows when to let others lead.

The internet has turned male beauty into a competition.

Looksmaxxers are on the hunt: not for money, power, or prestige, but for hunter eyes. The end goal is to look like an alpha male. But the behaviour is as stereotypically feminine as one might get.

Once upon a time, men grinded away to build empires. These men, quite differently, are on the grind to look fabulous.

What does this reveal about modern masculinity?

There is a paradox to this phenomenon.

Looksmaxxers compete to be the top dog, but in a remarkably feminine way. Beauty optimization is not stereotypically masculine. Discipline, skill growth, and risk-taking are.

The competition is not about competence. It is about appearance.

Their pecking order might as well be determined by a beauty pageant.

Stereotypically, masculine intrasexual competition is linked to displays of ability and resources. Looksmaxxers seem to have abandoned that entirely. They have taken a mantra that used to primarily constrain women: “you are worth only what you look like”, and adopted it on their own volition.

Apparently, this is how (some) men now compete for dominance.

What gave rise to this peculiar trend?

Young men are typically looking to take their place in the world, which implies garnering status. But in a world defined by social media, good looks are abnormally rewarded. Looksmaxxing, thus, is a shortcut to status through appearance.

It is not just vanity. They are seeking a way to ascend the social ladder.

And we have become so shallow that being handsome is now a legitimate way to achieve just that.

This, in part, explains looksmaxxing. Framing traditional masculinity as obsolete quietly hollows it out. But framing the status-seeking instincts of young men as toxic does not make them disappear.

They will show up elsewhere.

The old paths to masculine achievement have not become entirely unavailable. Men still dominate many high-reward fields. But our cultural climate does appear to take male adolescents in a different direction

The dominant message of social media points them elsewhere.

It reflects the phrase: how you look is how you are. The mirror becomes the only legible scoreboard. Knowing this, it is unsurprising that young men channel their ambition into pure beauty labour.

Video game addicts grind for experience points; looksmaxxers grind for sharper jawlines.

It will keep them from chasing real fulfilment.

The add-on “-maxxing” reveals a competitive drive, but it is harnessed counterproductively into “looks-”. Strangely, this is the direction that (some) masculine ambition is now aimed in. We live in a world where looking the right way is considered a valid form of male status-seeking.

At least to the looksmaxxers themselves, it is a considerable achievement.

They are falling into a trap.

As certain women have known for centuries, endlessly treating your body as a renovation project is not a worthwhile endeavour. Every mirror glance becomes an audit. And because every improvement is temporary, every improvement is insufficient.

Neurotically perfecting your appearance is not self-actualization; it does the opposite.

Looksmaxxing beautifully captures a deep contradiction in modern masculinity.

These young men have masculine drive, but are so clueless about how to channel it that they invest it into a deeply feminine form of competition. As a result, they have become a parody of themselves. Endlessly altering the surface layer to avoid what is happening on the deeper levels.

A significant portion of male adolescents now think the path towards dominance is to become hyper-feminine. To them, beauty equals status.

To reduce a woman to her appearance is a great disservice; to do the same to a man is clownmaxxing.

Thick skin is a virtue to most.

Although that is likely correct, it remains unclear what the term actually means. Indeed, those who take offense are easily hurt. And those with thick skin are more robust.

But what does that entail exactly?

We should define what it means to take offense.

In modern use, being offended refers to a kind of emotional reaction: one that occurs when words are deemed hurtful. But that is not purely objective. It involves interpretation, judgement, and some degree of agency.

Person one may take offense at a specific statement. All the while, person two may not.

The recipient is as important as the source.

Perhaps offense is a kind of psychological attack.

When something we tie our identity to is violated, it may cause a sort of wound: emotional trauma. Physical wounds are directly identifiable. Emotional wounds, however, depend somewhat on interpretation - and are therefore easily exaggerated.

The words affecting one person deeply may barely affect the next.

If we accept this to be true, then thick skin refers to psychological boundaries. The thicker someone’s skin, the harder it is to get to them. The thinner their skin, the quicker they are to register harsh words as violations.

It is tied to mental toughness.

Defending against offense, then, is not about suppressing pain.

That just hides the damage done.

It is about internal stability. If you know who you are, you can just evaluate bad-faith comments and dismiss them. If someone remarks something you know to be untrue, you may recognize it as such and move on.

A claim that does not match reality is unworthy of serious consideration.

To good-faith criticism one can listen.

Since it invites self-evaluation, it is usually beneficial. This contrasts with bad-faith criticism, which is aimed at disruption. The latter is best left where it came from.

To deal with criticism effectively, one must distinguish between uncomfortable truths and destabilizing lies.

This would mean thick skin follows from solid self-awareness.

Those who have it maintain a stable identity in the face of mean-spirited lies. And if resilience comes from a clear self-image, then insecurity must stem from incomplete self-understanding. So, fragile people are fragile because they do not fully grasp themselves.

They are insecure enough to take unfounded critiques seriously.

Plausibly, offense is a temporary disturbance in the model you have of yourself.

When it happens, the claims of someone else conflict with what you believe (or would like) to be true about yourself. This suggests that the person taking offense has a somewhat unstable sense of identity. Their ability to distinguish meaningful critique of their character from confusing noise remains limited.

Thick skin implies the ability to judge external claims against an integrated self-awareness.

Thus, taking offense is a mirror.

It reflects the fragility we carry inside ourselves. To grow resilient, you must understand who you are. You must face what about yourself you would rather avoid.

Because even if you wish to forget, the world will not. It will remind you of your shortcomings.

To not grow numb, we must stay aware.