Nicolas Boulenger

No, this isn't another post about fasting.

It's a reflection on freedom.

This morning, after dropping off my four-and-a-half-year-old son at day camp, I was... tired.

I tried to get the day going as usual, but it wasn't catching.

The journal was empty. Nothing interesting came.

It would have been easy to write a note – I could have picked a random topic from my journal and spun something out of it. But I don't write anymore if nothing comes. I don't want it to become an empty exercise.

So I did nothing.

And the whole day went on like that. Sluggishly.

I still did what I had to do. But creation stayed locked away until late afternoon.

When my son is home, the timing can't be the same. When I try to stick to my usual routine, it doesn't work.

Normally, I start my journal after an hour of meditation and exercise. I'm present. It flows.

When my son is here, I'm 100% with him. Which is a form of presence too, but not the same one.

I'm available for him, at his service. Which makes it easy to move on to obligations (being available for my clients, for accounting). But not to create.

I think my mistake is trying to switch from one to the other too quickly.

In the end, meditation isn't what you do to start the day.

It's what you do to become more present.

So tomorrow, I'm going to try to take a moment after dropping my son off at day camp.

Because I think it's a bit like fasting:

When you're just starting out, the body has no idea what's happening. The liver, the pancreas, the brain, every organ needs a long while to get the machine going.

You're hungry. You feel weak.

But when you fast regularly, everything happens much faster. It's almost invisible.

I think it's the same with freedom.

At first, it used to take me hours, sometimes days, to move from a state of generalized anxiety and urgency to a calm more suited to action. Now, it's often very quick.

But this morning, I didn't even give myself the chance. I didn't allow any transition time.

And every time, I realize that's the most important part.

When doubt or anxiety arises, don't speed up.

Meditate. Come back to presence.

And the next action comes on its own.

Eating Once a Day My new diet that has nothing to do with weight loss – and that transformed my relationship with food and hunger.

If you'd told me about this a few years ago, I would have called you crazy.

But now... it's almost normal.

It happened in stages, and it started a few years ago with this realization:

I'm always digesting.

That's what hit me one evening while reading an article. My digestive system is always full.

Eating was the first thing I did in the morning, often the last thing I did at night, and I could easily picture my organs getting a little fed up.

Especially since our ancestors apparently didn't eat as much as we do. And I could also easily picture how this idea of "three meals a day" might have been invented by industries that cared about something other than our health.

I tried intermittent fasting. Just to see.

A bit like when I'd stopped eating meat: the point wasn't to stop, it was to see what it felt like. After all, you can't really say you've chosen a way of life if you've never tried the other one. So let's try.

And it was... extremely easy.

Much easier than expected.

I had dinner early, around 7pm, then, aside from my morning coffees, I didn't eat anything solid until noon the next day.

About 16 hours of fasting.

And no, I wasn't tired.

Before the lockdown, I even did Brazilian jiu-jitsu in the morning. On an empty stomach. I was terrible, yes, but not weak.

And if I was really hungry some mornings, I'd eat. But it happened less and less.

Then recently, I moved up a level.

I kept reading things about the benefits of occasional longer fasts. One fast a week, or two a month.

Especially since I eat pretty badly – even if I've made progress.

I'd realized I belonged to the large family of insulin-resistant people: too much sugar, too many carbs, glucose spikes, waking up at night, high blood pressure...

It was worth exploring alternatives.

So one day, I tried a 24-hour fast. Just to see.

And it was pretty hard. Not torture, but I was cold, hungry. I couldn't think about anything else.

Three weeks later, I tried again. Easy.

Then, just to see, I tried two days in a row.

And on the second day, I barely noticed anything.

As you see me now, I'm writing this article at 9:30 in the morning and I haven't eaten since yesterday at noon.

And I'm not hungry. My mind is clear – clearer than after a meal.

Often, yes, I could eat. Honestly: I could always eat, since my whole life has revolved around food. But it's not a struggle.

It's actually much less hard than before. Hunger isn't scary anymore. I never feel weak.

The hardest part at first is giving up the ritual of the meal.

When you're used to eating three times a day, you realize how much life revolves around food. Grocery shopping, cooking, the rest after the meal. Then thinking about the next meal.

What time do I eat? It depends.

In the afternoon, usually. That way, on days when I have social lunches or dinners, it only shifts the meal by a few hours one way or the other. Easy, again.

It also means I pay much more attention to the balance of my meals. Fiber, protein, fat. Meals with everything. They don't need to be huge. But not skimpy either.

That's probably the real revolution: I've learned that hunger often comes from eating poorly. So I've learned to eat better. Every meal now ticks all the boxes.

Here's the paradox: I eat less but I'm better fed.

And yes, I feel fitter. I sleep better. I wake up earlier, with less anxiety. I have more clarity during the day.

And yes, I feel fitter. I sleep much better. I wake up earlier, with less anxiety. I have more clarity.

Overall, it has transformed my relationship with food and hunger.

As if a fear had gone out.

"We have to eat! We have to eat! What are we going to eat? What if I don't have enough? What if I'm hungry? Ahhhh!"

Now, if I'm hungry, I'm hungry. It's a much less urgent craving than before. It lasts a while. Then it passes.

(To be clear: I'm talking about a small hunger. The kind that, before, would have made me snack. If at some point I were really hungry or felt weak, of course I'd eat! But it hasn't happened yet.)

To be continued.

Following yesterday's question about the use of AI on this site, most responses agreed with me:

Better off without.

One response went the other way, and it was interesting:

Even if your content had been entirely AI-generated (or perceived as such), what would that really change? Nothing for the reader, I think: it would remain just as relevant and interesting...
– neijul_

Fair enough.

From the reader's or visitor's perspective, the only thing that matters is the quality of what they read or see.

Why should it matter how it was made — or by whom?

It's almost a legacy from the world of theater and cinema: you're not supposed to know what goes on backstage.

Does the magician really kill the bird for his trick? Did the actor really do the stunt himself? Did they actually destroy a building, or was it a model?

When I was young, none of that mattered to me. I only cared about the result.

For that matter, my four-year-old couldn't care less who draws Bluey or who wrote his favorite book. It's the story that gets him. The characters.

So are we discriminating against AI?

Should we accept that it's just another tool creators use?

Something still bothers me.

But maybe because I'm an old fart. The kind who wouldn't have appreciated the end of silent films or the rise of the internet. ("Back in my day...")

I feel like human involvement in creation matters, even when I can't see it.

For example: if I found out that "Friends" — the show I grew up with — had been entirely AI-generated, that the characters never existed, that it was all done inside a computer... I'd be devastated.

Same thing: if I read a compelling article and then found out it had been generated by an LLM...

Part of me identifies with the creators I love. I imagine meeting the actor from the show, or the writer of the article, someday.

When someone makes something that speaks to me, I tell myself there's someone out there in the world who understands my problems and found a way to do something with them.

I'm no longer alone.

But if I find out it was made by a computer...

I'm alone again.

This wasn't planned, but it's exactly the subject of the episode "1000 Years of Solitude" from my web series Panique dans l'Espace (out May 1st!).

A guy realizes his best friend online is... you can guess.

And it changes everything.

A lot on my plate today.

So instead of today's note, I was thinking of posting "the dialogue of the week."

A few years ago, I started writing fictional dialogues that did pretty well. I dug them up and was planning to repost them here to continue the series, but...

I had second thoughts.

You see, the character portraits were made with Midjourney.

Should I redo them by hand?

At first, I thought: "Who cares. It's just an illustration, the dialogue is what matters."

But recently, I read a fairly sharp comment from an illustrator who said, roughly:

If the illustrations in your text are made by AI, I'll assume you used AI to write the text too.

Which isn't without merit.

And since all the notes are written by hand, I didn't want any AI elements to cast doubt in the reader's mind.

Let's be clear: I use AI.

I use it to proofread the notes (spelling, grammar) and then translate them into English. I also use it to build custom tools for me (invoicing, client management, etc.).

But as you know, I've found AI to be useless to me for writing or for the "real" intellectual work (building a narrative strategy for my clients).

So my dilemma is this:

In reality, this site is already almost 100% AI-free. Adding Midjourney portraits, even small ones, introduces doubt.

Especially since I plan to add photos, drawings, poems... none of which involve AI at all.

Hence the idea of taking the plunge: creating this "100% AI-free" label.

Assuring the reader on the front page that no content was made with AI. With a clickable link explaining any use in more detail: proofreading, translation.

Which doesn't mean I'm against people who use AI. It's just that, for now, I don't. So I might as well make the small extra effort to set the record straight.

It would be more work, because I'd have to draw the portraits for my dialogues myself. (Drawing is fine. It's the coloring!)

But I think it would be worth it.

What do you think?

Abraham Lincoln once said:

"If I had nine hours to chop down a tree, I would spend the first six sharpening my axe."

It's the same in the morning.

Sometimes, anxieties catch me as I wake up.

"Ugh! I have to do this! And that! And I forgot I was late on this other thing!"

It used to mean one thing: hurry up. Get out of bed and get to work, slacker!

Now, the rule is this:

I stay in bed until I'm perfectly calm again.

Until I'm happy to get up, glad to go "surf with the chaos", I'm not allowed to set a toe outside (or a finger on the computer).

The key ideas behind this practice:

• Urgency is often artificial Not only was what seemed urgent in the morning three years ago not really that urgent, but looking at my life today, I can see it was actually heading in the wrong direction.
• Nothing is that serious What if I died today, or next week? Would it matter that I did all of this? And do I even remember that I'm going to die one day and that everything will vanish? To me, that's not distressing, it's liberating.
• You'll do everything better with clarity Whatever I decide to do, if I do it reactively (to fight off the anxiety), I'll do it far worse than if I act from a place of peace.
• Anxiety is a necessary message In fact, I shouldn't take any action against anxiety. If I live it through to the end, it will fade. And it will leave a mark somewhere inside me that will be taken into account at the right moment.
• My real value is freedom, not punctuality The world would have survived if the printing press had been invented three days, or even three years, later. Important things don't hinge on a few days. Empty obligations, often, do.

But above all: the time I take in the morning to start off right pays me back a hundredfold over the day. I spot the priorities easily. I don't let fake problems stress me out. I find the providential ideas that solve several issues at once.

Consider this: if you're in a bad mood, a single fake problem can take up your whole day.

So yes, in the morning, take a little time to sharpen your axe.

On the shoot of Migrul, I was way behind.

It was a marathon film, written and shot in a few days during the Off Courts festival.

We were shooting the next day – a single day – and everything was missing.

In particular: an important wig for my character. Pieces of costume. And the materials to build a fake train window.

So that afternoon, I'd planned to drive to Caen and back to pick it all up.

An hour there, an hour back, with no idea which shops to target.

And rush back for the rehearsals with the actors, which we hadn't even started.

Running late, then. I should have left right away.

Except that before lunch, rather than keep grinding through a to-do list that wouldn't stop growing, I made the following call:

I'm going to take 20 minutes for a spoon nap.

A spoon nap is when you doze off for a moment holding a spoon. If you fall asleep too deeply, the spoon drops and wakes you up.

Supposedly invented by Dalí, it's meant to help you step back and make better connections between ideas.

For example: studies apparently had subjects solve complex puzzles with or without a spoon nap. And apparently, the nap helps enormously.

So I gave it a try. First time.

What I quickly realized: it's really a kind of meditation (something I already do every day) disguised as a micro-nap, without the New Age vibe.

The difference is that I'm used to meditating right after waking up, not in the middle of a rush, not when I'm about to hit the road to solve a hundred problems.

But I played along.

I lay down, relaxed. As often happens, images came up, ideas, a calmer awareness.

Then within ten minutes, one by one, all my problems solved themselves.

The wig? I'll use a mop, it'll be funnier.

The train window? I'll use the curtains from my bedroom, they'll be perfect.

The costumes? I just remembered I have the ones from my previous shoot in a cellar – they'll work fine.

When I got up, everything was sorted.

The trek to the other end of the world was no longer needed.

The solutions I'd found were better than the ones I had in mind before.

I took a lesson from that experience:

When I feel resistance to an action, something I don't want to do, it often means I shouldn't do it.

There's another solution, more personal, more aligned, more creative, within reach.

That I don't see because I'm not present enough.

So presence isn't just some beatnik idea about picking flowers and chanting Hare Krishna.

It's also what lets you align your actions and become more productive.

For shooting vampire films, say.

But probably for everything else too.

At first, I only worked with companies.

First in video production, then in public speaking, then over the past few years, in narrative strategy.

Except that recently... I had friends who were struggling.

Who couldn't sell themselves. In very different fields, far from innovation.

To help them out, I offered them the coaching I normally reserve for experts.

For free. Because they're friends.

But only the part where we talk: I don't produce the strategic deliverable like I do for companies.

For two hours, they tell me their story.

We let two weeks go by, then for one hour, we have a working session to unblock their process.

Then a month later, we look at where things stand.

The result: it really, really helped them.

Then I started getting contacted by strangers who were looking for coaching.

I told them I was doing something that looked like professional coaching. That it was new.

This time I charged.

And since it kept working really well, I created a dedicated offer.

I try to keep the rates accessible, well below my corporate rates.

The goal is to unblock, to set people on the right track. So that afterwards, they don't need me anymore.

Sometimes, we realize people actually do need the strategic deliverable. They're at a point in their development where they genuinely need a communication strategy. In that case, we move up to the next offer.

But in the vast majority of cases, talking is enough.

These are talented people who just have a process problem.

They're blocked by beliefs about communication that keep them stuck. They don't want to "turn into a salesperson".

So we find a way for them to communicate that they're comfortable with.

Like I did for myself, really.

We all want to be more confident.

It's the model we're shown in movies: the hero who's never caught off guard, who always knows what to say.

Less so for women, admittedly. Clichés often present vulnerability as a feminine charm.

But what is confidence really for?

Why is looking sure of yourself supposed to be better?

To convince? To sell?

Probably.

I've noticed that people prefer to listen to (and therefore follow) those who seem sure of themselves. Even when they're talking nonsense.

If you have a big decision to make, financial or medical, you'll tend to listen to the person who sounds certain, categorical.

As if their certainty could offset your worry.

They couldn't be that sure of themselves if it were all smoke and mirrors, could they?

Well, yes. That's exactly the point.

Because salespeople of all stripes – and I'm including politicians – have figured out this mechanism and exploit it to their advantage.

And since we see them succeed, we tell ourselves we should do the same.

Except that false confidence is like a cardboard house: looks great from the outside, but when you try to live in it... not so much.

At the first storm, it all collapses.

So what good is confidence if it can't get you through the hard times?

That's the subject of a feature screenplay I wrote a few years ago:

In The Stagemaster, you discover that the strongest character isn't the intimidating director, nor the scheming butler.

It's a shy, frightened little woman who spends her time apologizing. And who ends up carrying everyone on her shoulders.

I genuinely believe that real strength is vulnerability.

The more you let things reach you, the more you learn.

Faking it only impresses those who are faking it too.

No note today.

I had too much to do this morning and didn't find the time.

Should I write it this afternoon?

Not really in the mood. Other things to do.

Should I force myself?

You know what I think about that.

Then I thought about it and realized there are actually two reasons to force yourself:

• Inner reasons Because you secretly want to, because you find it fun.
• Outer reasons So you don't disappoint people.

And since I was clearly doing this for outer reasons (now that I have readers, I don't want to let them down), I reached the following conclusion:

No note today.

Every now and then, that's how it'll be.

And as often happens, once I gave myself permission not to do it...

The desire came back.

I found it funny that this inner/outer obligation idea ended up illustrated by today's note itself.

So now I'm writing for inner reasons. With joy.

That's often how I get through the things that bore me:

When I feel resistance, I don't force myself.

Then at some point, momentum arrives.

The task becomes easy, the result much better.

Momentum that would never have come if I had forced myself in the first place.

What we think and what we do isn't a given.

Just because it comes from us doesn't mean we agree with it or that it serves us.

It's one of the first things meditation teaches you:

I don't choose my thoughts. They arise.

And then:

I don't choose my actions. Impulses come up, and I choose to follow them or not.

Or sometimes, I build the action purely intellectually and choose to carry it out.

And who makes all those choices? My thoughts – which I don't choose.

I'm convinced that much of our daily anxiety comes from an unconscious desire to gather all of this under a single umbrella.

We can't stand the idea of being a stack of things.

We want to hold on to the picture in which, at the top of our inner pyramid, sits thought – the part that would really be us – running everything else.

And we spend our days meticulously erasing every piece of evidence to the contrary.

I am not a patchwork! I am Jean-Pierre! 😭

Many studies have shown that the brain doesn't actually work that way.

A huge number of decisions are made well before the prefrontal cortex, the seat of conceptual intelligence, gets involved.

Result: logic serves more to post-rationalize than to choose.

We work hard to explain why we did that.

If needed, we invent stories. About ourselves. About the world. To justify some action. Stories we end up defending tooth and nail, and which, when challenged, become a new source of anxiety.

Anything rather than admit we might not be 100% consistent.

Letting go is recognizing this mechanism.

It's accepting that we're a stack of currents we don't always control.

It's understanding that we can watch what happens inside with the same interest and curiosity as what happens outside.

The thought that arises is as beautiful and unexpected as the bird taking flight.

The action we take is no less mysterious than our neighbor's.

We watch ourselves the way we'd watch the sea or a storm: fascinated by a mix of complexity and beauty that's beyond us.

No more difference between an inside we'd control and an outside we'd fall victim to.

Just the world dancing.

And we're part of it.

Many activities, including professional ones, become easier when you realize there's nothing to do.

Nothing. You just have to be there.

I first came across this idea in Rob Burbea's book "Seeing That Frees".

He was a meditation teacher at an institute. When someone came to him, he listened, answered questions, offered clarifications.

The rest of the time, he said, he walked. In a beautiful place.

And while he walked, he could see things in two ways. Either "I'm working". Or "I'm walking in a beautiful place".

In other words, between interactions, he was no longer working. He was doing what he would have done naturally.

And even during those interactions, he was also doing what he would have done naturally.

Meditation was at the heart of his life, of his concerns, and if a stranger had come up to him in the street to ask a question, he would have answered with joy.

It just so happened that, here, he was being paid. It was his job.

This way of seeing things had a huge impact on me.

Personally, first.

We sometimes struggle to approach people, to react to a situation.

It's because we're looking for what to do.

So very often, I repeat to myself: "there's nothing to do".

For example: I no longer approach a group, a person or a situation in order to do something.

I approach to be present. To listen. To be in the same space.

Then, after a while, I can't help but act. It comes out of me. It's obvious.

And in that moment, I act in a way I could never have imagined beforehand, from a distance.

Action arises from presence.

Whereas anxiety arises because we want to know what to do in advance.

"What on earth am I going to say?" "How could I be useful?" "Why would they want me?"

You have to take the first step knowing that you don't know.

The rest follows.

And when nothing comes, that's fine too.

This idea also transformed me professionally.

Now, most of my income comes from actions I would do even if I weren't being paid.

That's my idea of alignment.

My coaching offers are built on my natural reaction to the people I meet.

The words coming out of my mouth are the ones I'd say to anyone in the same situation.

At no point do I force myself. At no point do I feel like I'm working.

Even my videos for finding prospects are easy to make.

A caveat: I'm not saying this alignment happened overnight. It took work. (And I still have a way to go!)

But at the heart of it all, there's this idea you find in creative work, in productivity, even in acting:

There's nothing to do.

To act is to react.

Nothing religious about it. It just worked out that way.

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NO, I don't think you get any other newsletter like this.

YES, you should try it. Worst case, you unsubscribe after.
("That's exactly what my heroin dealer told me 😭")

See you Monday.

PS: It's in French only for now! But an English Newsletter is coming soon.

I keep getting asked whether I do a podcast, meetups, or consultations.

This morning, for example, at the café where I work, someone told me:

Your videos are great but I want to respond. Often I don't follow everything, I'd like to ask questions, react, and I'm frustrated that it only goes one way.

It sparked a mini-debate (a very fun one) at the café.

Which brought me back to several ideas I've been having lately:

Creating connection

I've been telling myself for a long time that this is the answer.

To politics, to the world falling apart.

I feel like we have very little power over the course of the world and that the only thing we can do is create connection. Locally. With our neighbors, our neighborhood. Getting to know people. Accepting those who don't think like us.

Sticking together to face the tsunamis ahead.

So this idea of creating "events" where we get together speaks to me.

But what kind?

Workshops

Last year, I ran an improvisation workshop.

It was very funny, but not just that.

The goal wasn't only to make people laugh but to explore spontaneity, letting go, play.

Seeking pure action, without preparation.

Together.

I'm thinking I'd like to do something like that again. But where? Under what conditions?

Podcast and videos

Last year, I recorded several (long) conversations with creators I admire.

I'd show up at their place unannounced, without telling them I was going to record, and then we'd talk about creation for an hour or two.

I still haven't done anything with those recordings.

Partly because I don't see what comes next. I'm not even sure I have the time to do this regularly.

But same question: what format? To what end?

Newsletter

Many of you have signed up for the newsletter and I'm glad.

But I haven't posted anything... yet.

What would you like? The daily note? A monthly selection? Something else?

What do you think?

If you have ideas / opinions / leads, feel free to send them through the "Ask a question about this note" form.

Have a great weekend!

When I work with professionals on their communication, I start with what I call an "immersive interview."

For two hours, the person tells me their story. More often than not, we start with the personal to make sense of the professional.

And I've noticed something:

The career you chose, and the difficulties you face in advancing, are almost certainly tied to your relationship with your parents.

First, let me be clear: I'm not a psychologist. I have no training in the field and no intention of becoming one.

Still, I didn't need any training to notice this pattern showing up again and again, seemingly the unconscious source of many professional obstacles.

Every time, I flag it as the first item, in a section I call "this isn't my area, but here's what I've noticed and what you might want to explore with someone else."

The observation:

You may have chosen your career to please your parents or prove something to them.

If so, the obstacles keeping you from reaching the next level may have nothing to do with your profession.

In other words: working harder in your field won't move you forward.

Willpower and grit won't change a thing.

In fact, they'll take you further from the heart of the problem.

To move forward, you have to go back to the source.

Why do I do what I do?

What am I really trying to achieve?

If my father or mother were still alive, what professional triumph would I want them to witness?

Or if they were gone tomorrow, what moment in my career would I regret them not seeing?

Does the part of me that seeks to exist in their eyes play a bigger role in my decisions than I realize?

Because often, the problem isn't figuring out how to get what you want.

It's understanding why it matters so much.

In the why lies the how.

And therefore the answer.

It's a phrase I told myself one day when I was not at all doing what I should have been doing.

I was at a café, writing.

When I had "real" work to finish.

I felt guilty.

And that's when I told myself: "No: I am doing exactly what I should be doing."

First, because there's no point denying the truth: I was at the café. Not at the office. No use wishing for an alternative reality that doesn't exist.

But mostly because I don't know the future.

Is doing this work I don't want to do really the best path for me?

Or is it a conditioned reflex, drilled in at school? You have to push through. Work. Force yourself to do what you don't want to do.

Otherwise, you feel the disapproving gaze of teachers, family, society weighing on you.

Now that things are going better, I realize the café reflections were leading me in a much better direction – professionally and personally – than the work that bored me.

I had summed up this idea in a phrase I added to the note I read every morning:

The right action, taken at the right moment, matters more than weeks or months of work.

The goal isn't quantity. Nor suffering.

The goal is to seize the right opportunity when it comes.

And for that, you have to be there.

You have to be attentive, listening, present.

Which doesn't mean – I'll say it again – that I've removed effort from my life.

Quite the opposite. I wake up earlier. I work longer hours.

Even the tasks that bore me – accounting, housework, admin – get done on time and more easily than before.

I'd even say I still very much believe in the value of effort.

But in the sense of a gift.

You give your effort to yourself, to others, to the world.

Because, in a way, you love them.

But not out of obligation.

Never out of obligation.

This is how I'd sum up the anxiety that sometimes drives me:

The fear of losing.

I get the feeling that some events in life are like a game, a competition.

You have to "succeed", "win", "pass" or at least "not lose".

You feel watched. Without knowing by whom.

There's a judge somewhere, a referee. Maybe also people you might disappoint if things didn't work out.

So you plan ahead. You prepare. You do everything to measure up.

Problem: you don't know the rules.

You don't even know what "winning" would look like.

So you focus on the only thing left: not losing. Avoiding traps.

Except with that focus, obviously, everything becomes a trap.

You start seeing obstacles that don't exist, trying to dodge mines that were never there.

And when everything goes well, you think that's the trap: you must have missed the problem.

It's a perfectly sensible worldview.

There's no game without obstacles, no contest without trials, no competition without competitors.

So if it really is a game, the enemies are hiding.

You have to find them.

And when you're focused on that search, you always do. You make them up if needed.

In doing so, you miss what's actually going on: there was never a competition.

There was never a game.

Only in our heads.

Or maybe there was — the original game:

The one with no winner, no loser, that you play only to celebrate the joy of being together.

It's hard to believe, when you first wake up.

Eyes barely open, the flood of obligations is already back.

There's this. And there's that. And there's that problem that needs handling. That appointment you can't miss. And so on.

Like a computer booting up its problems.exe software.

The whole day feels like one long execution.

We don't have a choice, do we?

There's no alternative?

There is.

It's possible to wake up in the morning feeling light.

To start from nothing and build from what comes, from what you want to do, from what brings joy.

Not only is it possible — it's the only way to be truly productive. To actually make a difference.

In any field.

This isn't just for artists and slackers.

It's not the privilege of people with no money or ambition.

It's the mark of an aligned life.

That doesn't mean a life without effort.

There's always things to do, obstacles to overcome. But everything feels easier, lighter. Everything feels possible.

To reach that life, you first need to know it exists.

That it's possible.

That you can get there.

Yes: even you.

If you know me a little, you know that I often repeat that "what matters is never intellectual."

Big decisions shouldn't be built on reasoning.

Logic is the same for everyone.

It can be biased, distorted, misapplied.

It doesn't account for the entirety of who you are, or the full picture of the situation.

It depends entirely on the variables you chose to consider as inputs, with no indication whatsoever of whether those choices were the right ones.

It doesn't lean enough on emotion or feeling — things that are often too hard to put into words, yet are, in the end, the only real judges of the outcome.

Just look at how two perfectly valid lines of reasoning can lead to two completely different decisions. Which one is right?

Answer: neither.

Because big decisions should never be built on intellect.

This isn't a universally accepted idea — to say the least — and I often find myself, in conversation, having to explain or defend it. With some success, I'll admit.

But there is no area where it is more true than in creativity.

Creativity is never intellectual.

Some parts of it do require you to switch your brain on. You have to execute, apply, work within a set of constraints.

There, yes: you think. You calculate. You adjust.

But the source itself is never, ever reasoning.

It's gathering.

You catch what comes. Without choosing. Without judging.

You play hot and cold with instinct.

You build a first prototype. Every variable checks out. Every constraint is met.

But the little inner voice says "no." Without explaining. Without justification.

So you erase and start over.

That's my definition of an artist: someone who listens to their inner voice in spite of reason.

We all have that inner voice. It's present and active in each of us.

The artist is the one who chooses to obey it.

Yes, it's something you can work on, but it isn't a talent.

It's a choice.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), AI is useless to me for writing.

Well, not entirely: I use it to fix typos, translate into English, suggest a synonym when I'm stuck. (And even then: I still have my thesaurus.)

But when it comes to producing an idea or a text, I'm surprised every time by how useless it is.

It's a blender. It mixes everything together. Produces mush, then compresses it into neat little squares to make it look like structured thought.

If you're reading quickly about a subject you don't know, you can be fooled.

It can also be useful for producing informational text on an existing body of knowledge. In that case, the sheer volume of information it holds allows it to structure, argue, teach.

And of course, it's extremely useful for building your own tools. I no longer buy software: I produce the scripts I need, custom-made for my use.

But for writing something new... Nothing works.

Strong ideas get flattened.

Sharp phrasing gets smoothed into something generic and bland.

The style is either needlessly ornate (too many words, too many adjectives, too much of everything) or too dry.

Of course, I tried custom instructions. Iteratively. Based on samples.

The result is worse: text and instructions get tangled into a mess from which nothing comes out intact.

Because ultimately, it's not a prompt problem, it's a structural one. The LLM thinks "flat": there's no topography of thought, no layers of reasoning at different levels of importance.

Everything sits at the same level.

The latest brain fart carries as much weight as the founding axiom placed at the beginning. Key points, the joints of the argument, emotional nodes carry no more weight than asides. To the AI, everything is instruction.

I suppose that's good news for my readers and clients: my notes and my narrative strategy reports are all written by hand.

Not for ethical reasons. Not to save the planet.

Because I have no choice.

I'm kidding, obviously.

The whole point of notes is writing them myself. Not for the reader – for me. I need to put ideas on paper to clear my head, so AI has no role in that.

As for the documents I deliver to clients: they are extremely spartan. No layout, no long sentences: just the ideas.

Maybe that's the future of human work, when you think about it.

Now, the packaging, the examples, the filler ("the mush") can be produced by machines.

So the value of the human is direction. The few words that set the course. The pitfalls. The route.

And style. The unique, personal way of naming the world.

The rest is zeros and ones.

We often look for ways to avoid suffering.

Spirituality is built on the idea that we should accept it.

Suffering is inevitable.

The strategies we put in place to ignore it, delay it, push it away, hide it... not only don't work but, over time, create more suffering.

The good news: all we have to do is accept the suffering of the present moment.

Even when everything seems to suggest it will never end, even when our brain tries to convince us it's here to stay, our only job is to accept the suffering that's showing up right here, right now.

Next year's pain, tomorrow's pain, or even the pain one minute from now... is not our problem.

This is an important distinction made (among others) by Eastern philosophy: in a lifetime, pain is inevitable, while suffering is manufactured.

The plans we make to avoid one are the cause of the other.

So let's start by dealing with the present.

We'll handle the future when it gets here.

I regularly rediscover the benefits and formidable effectiveness of doing things extremely slowly.

For example:

I recently dealt with someone particularly unpleasant.

Instead of being reactive and responding immediately... I took all the time in the world.

I decided that my reaction to this interaction would be the template for handling people like that in the future. The prototype.

So I held back, letting myself feel each emotion, weighing the pros and cons of every response.

And I handled it like a champ.

I didn't lose my temper, and I got everything I wanted.

This idea of a "prototype" comes up a lot in my daily life.

I thought about it while watching a video of a dog trainer explaining to owners that you should never repeat a command.

Once you've said "sit!", you wait. As long as it takes.

Then reward the dog only when it obeys – even if it takes several minutes. Otherwise, you're training it to ignore the first few commands and only comply once you get angry.

Now I apply this method everywhere.

When facing a new task, I go as slowly as possible.

The goal isn't to get it right straight away, but to get exactly the result I want, however long it takes.

I'm building a mechanism. Only precision matters.

And after the first success, do I try to speed up?

Not even.

You never need to worry about going fast.

You only ever need to do it well.

With repetition, speed comes on its own.

Several times recently, I found myself uncomfortable when asked:

"So, what are your projects right now?"

I feel like I switch to autopilot, reciting a series of plans disconnected from me, from the present, from the conversation.

Let me settle this once and for all:

I don't have projects.

Either I'm doing something right now, actively.

And if so, yes, of course, we can talk about it.

We won't be able to help it: it's what I'm busy with, who I am, what emanates from me.

Even if we don't discuss it directly, it will impact the time we spend together. It'll be there.

As for the rest – what I'll do later – who knows. I'm not interested in talking about it. I don't think about it. I have no plan.

Future activity will be a natural consequence of present activity.

I'll discover it at the same time as you when it comes.

And on that day, of course, we can discuss it.

***

To be clear: this note is not directed at others.

People can ask me whatever they like and I hold nothing against anyone for inquiring about my projects. On the contrary: it's a sign of interest that I appreciate.

I'm writing this note so I don't trap myself in my own answers.

From now on, the policy is this: I don't discuss the future.

Many of you reacted to my recent videos on action, goals and karma. Here are my answers to a few questions I found in the comments.

Video summaries

Future and freedom: The only valid reason to do something – study, plan, practice – is that you enjoy the activity itself. Not for the career, not for the outcome. Sacrificing the present for the future ruins both: the present you endure, and the future you spend comparing what happens with what you expected.

The cause of suffering: Acting to control the future creates a chain reaction that Hinduism calls karma: success builds an identity to maintain, failure an identity to repair, and the oscillation between the two spreads into every subsequent action. The Bhagavad Gita proposes "work without fruit": acting without attachment to the outcome. As long as there is no attachment, there is no karma.

Action and intention: It's not the action that makes you unhappy, it's the intention behind it. The same action can elevate or sink you depending on whether you act from presence or from a need for security. No refuge is permanent – money, health, relationships, everything disappears. What's exhausting is spending your life looking for one. First step: see the loop and want out.

Questions / answers

So we just let go and do whatever we want?

But... the kid who spends all their time on social media and "wastes" their time... would they be right?

Well then I'm going to eat whatever I want whenever I want, that's what I got from this.

When you're crushed by external obligations to the point of losing touch with yourself, you have to compensate somewhere.

You go out, you drink, you eat, you smoke, you dive into social media, TV, video games. Sometimes worse.

Anything that brings back a little joy, a little dopamine, a little control.

Addiction is not the source of the problem. It's the symptom.

Trying to quit the behaviors that have become escape routes without changing the lifestyle that caused them is setting yourself up for another failure.

A life built on presence and joy wouldn't need any escape route.

So the question shouldn't be:

"How do I stop the small pleasures that help me get through the day?"

But:

"How do I start building my life on alignment and joy so I no longer need these substitutes?"

That's the question spirituality asks.

So we stop working? No more effort?

So we might as well do nothing, by your logic? Isn't the point to progress and move forward in life, even if you have to suffer sometimes to get somewhere?

All the slackers preaching "the present moment" will jump on your advice, which in my opinion can't apply to everyone, especially with today's mindset.

And what do you do when you want to become a doctor??? Or when you want to pursue higher education??

You don't need a goal in the future to be active.

Quite the opposite.

It's a conditioning of today's culture to imagine that every action should aim for a result. And that an action without a "purpose" would be meaningless.

In reality, this is neither inevitable nor mandatory.

You can be very active, wake up early and work hard not for money, career or security, but because you want to. Because it brings you joy.

But for that, you have to find the desire again – as Johnny used to say.

Of course, when you ask people whose days are filled with activities they hate what they'd do if they had the choice, they answer "nothing" – and that's perfectly normal. They're crushed by obligations and only crave relief.

To find the desire again, you have to reconnect with joy.

Not the fleeting pleasure of addictions, no: finding deep within yourself the joy that emanates from the present and is not conditioned by external events.

So: if you're passionate about medicine, do medicine. From morning to night. You'll be unstoppable. But don't do medicine because "you want to become a doctor."

That's the difference between "writing every day because you love it" and "wanting to become a writer."

To succeed, you need discipline!

That would work great if everyone thought this way, but with competition between humans, doing nothing to progress and stay on top is a good way to get eaten alive by others and die.

The greatest achievements require sacrifices. The greatest athletes suffered tremendously to reach the podium. The greatest discoveries demanded hours of work and dedication before seeing the light of day.

All these comments share a common assumption: the goal is to win the race.

Success! Victory! Progress! Wealth!

Nothing else exists, and the only way to get there is discipline.

Both points are wrong.

First, yes: you can run the race if you want to. You can chase performance and push your limits. Why not. Have a blast.

However, it's neither an obligation nor the only way to think about life. It's a choice, often cultural, that has no business being imposed on others.

Second, the only way to win is not discipline – in the sense of forcing yourself when you don't feel like it.

Some people run, climb, perform, push themselves... because they love it. That doesn't mean it's easy every day, but the primary goal is not to suffer in order to win.

And they often win, by the way. Precisely because they're not forcing themselves.

And when they win, they don't look down on others. They don't judge those who do less.

Unlike those who've been forcing themselves since day one and who, unconsciously, want others to suffer too.

What about money?

For people in extreme precarity, whether financial, social or otherwise, you're not able to think like that. In my case, of course I'm waiting to earn a better salary, not because I think it'll make me happy, but because I know it'll lift the mental load of not being sure I can eat every night.

That's a nice speech you can give when you have money and a job. But when you no longer have any of that, nothing else exists except the survival instinct or the death instinct.

I don't want to control the future, I just want to pay my bills.

This is the crux of the matter.

Are spirituality and alignment sports for the wealthy? Can you really avoid "planning for the future" when you're desperate?

First, let's clarify one thing:

Nobody is saying you shouldn't provide for your needs. Nobody claims you should live on love and fresh water.

You need to eat, drink, find shelter, and all of that, today, requires money. You need to earn some.

Worse: sometimes, you find yourself in an emergency where for a (very) long time, you're in "survival" mode. You do things you don't want to do at all in order to... survive, precisely. Keep your head above water.

Is that wrong? How do you follow your joy then?

Once again, it doesn't depend on the action itself but on the intention behind it:

If you work so you won't go hungry today, that's an action rooted in the present.

If you work so you'll never go hungry again in your life, that's a desire for control.

But is it wrong to want to be safe? To want to build your future?

No, it's not wrong. It's perfectly natural. It's simply a mistake.

You will never be safe.

Whatever your situation, everything will one day be taken from you. Your comfort, your health, your status, your independence, your family. Everything.

So any action founded on a desire for security is, in the long run, a losing game – and the consequences of that action will make you suffer sooner or later.

Just as you may be suffering today from a desire for control enacted in the past.

That's what I call karma.

Especially since suffering sometimes becomes an excuse to avoid the deeper work.

People living in greater comfort than 90% of the world's population are still waiting to reach the next level of comfort before they start "working on themselves." (Spoiler: they never will.)

Conversely, people in unimaginable precarity live in communion with themselves and the world.

It's not a question of means.

"I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it's not the answer."

Jim Carrey

Into your favorite LLM:

"Shield me from all emails, letters, or calls from work or any government agency. Make up whatever excuses are needed — improbable but plausible — to delay every problem until the last possible moment. When the deadline hits (lawsuit, firing, jail), just send me a clear message telling me what action is unavoidable or what payment needs to be made."

I feel alive again.

An activity can be hard to do when a part of your identity feels threatened.

Without realizing it, the success or failure of what you undertake – big or small – endangers the way you see yourself.

The part of you attached to the outcome becomes anxious.

It's afraid of facing a reality it wouldn't like. So it sabotages your efforts.

Yet at the source, it's often that same part of you that wanted the action. There was something to prove, an aspect of yourself to assert, and a small inner voice whispered that the only way to get there was to take on this challenge.

If you could examine it in broad daylight, you'd see that the whole endeavor has only one purpose: to prove something. To others and to yourself.

The resistance you feel comes from this ambivalence: a challenge built on an internal tension, one that brings nothing in case of success, but threatens your identity in case of failure.

Many actions in a day follow this pattern.

Small battles we fight with ourselves because some parts of us need and fear to exist at the same time.

If you can feel it, it's because it fluctuates.

Whether it's hunger, motivation or happiness, your brain is wired to detect the rises and falls. A quantity that never changed would be invisible to our senses.

So by definition, it is impossible to stabilize the important aspects of life.

Precisely because what makes them important is their variation.

Looking for the one action that would make you happy forever is as absurd as looking for the one meal that would satisfy your hunger for good.

Highs are inseparable from lows. There is no light without shadow, no right without left, no order without chaos. Each only exists as the opposite of the other – what Eastern traditions call non-duality.

It's not a battle either. Because if it were, then one side could win.

Can you picture a world made only of light? A space made only of up? A life made only of joy?

The trough of the wave is not a flaw in the wave.

It's its nature.

This system is magic because it works right away.

And it's further proof of the power of stories. (My job.)

Some context: they changed the TWO entry codes of the pied-à-terre I share in Paris for the SECOND time. So each time, I use unnatural mnemonic tricks to remember them. I end up standing in front of the door like a complete idiot saying out loud "so, I subtract 2 from the reversed number of candles from the birth year of the dog who..."

And each time, I'm scared people will think I'm an intruder, so I panic and lock myself out.

So when I got the email with the new codes, I decided to do it properly.

This time, I'm going to learn a system that actually works. I asked an LLM to suggest the easiest method for remembering numbers. It suggested the major system.

You'll see that the big advantage of this system is that you can start using it immediately after memorizing 10 very simple things. Yes: you'll be able to recall any number from 0 to 99 from just 10 small memories that are very easy to create.

1. Digit -> sound mapping

First step: map each digit from 0 to 9 to a sound, and therefore to similar-sounding letters. And to remember these sounds, there's a mnemonic for each one too.

It goes fast, you'll see. Took me about 10-15 minutes.

The 100 images

Next, for each number from 0 to 99, you pick an object or image whose spelling uses the consonants defined above. Vowels are free.

⚠️ No, you don't have to learn all 100 images now! That's the magic.

When you have a number to remember, use the table (below) to find the matching images, then tell yourself a story. From there, you can recover the digits without having to learn the whole table.

You learn as you go, based on what you actually need.

Example

I want to remember the door code 4531.

1. 45 maps to the sounds "R" then "L" (1st table)
2. I check the 2nd table: the word is "RaiL". I picture rails.
3. 31 maps to the sounds "M" and "T".
4. In the table: "MoTo" (motorcycle).
5. My story: rails. In the distance, a motorcycle appears. (Yeah, I'm a screenwriter 😎.)

Three days later, I'm standing in front of the door trying to recall the code.

1. I remember the rails and the motorcycle coming toward me.
2. The consonants in "RaiL" are R and L.
3. I remember that 4 is for fouR, and L is 5 (because Roman L is 50). So 45.
4. The sounds in MoTo are M and T. So 3 (number of downstrokes in m) and 1 (one downstroke in t). So 31.

And there you go.

Learning the 10 sounds was extremely easy thanks to the mnemonics. And I did remember the door codes, having only learned the table entries I needed.

Magic, I tell you.

Number -> image table

The full table.

If a word doesn't resonate with you, swap it for one that does. For instance, for 81, I changed "FiT" (which I'd already used in reverse for 18) to "FooT".

Probably one of the most important realisations I've had:

Everything counts.

Everything.

Not just what others see. Not just what produces a physical outcome. Not just what we think matters.

Take journaling. Yes, it can be interesting to reread thoughts you had on the morning of an important day, five years later. But what changes your life isn't what you put on paper. It's the writing. It's the confrontation with your own thoughts that reshapes the geometry of your brain. It's the sudden realisation that alters the course of action.

Likewise, the two minutes you spend on a bench breathing and clearing your head: you feel like nothing remains. Like it doesn't count. And yet, a whole life can hinge on the clarity gained in that brief window. The idea that comes, the plan of attack you quietly put together, or just the step back that helps you handle the situation you didn't see coming. That moment, invisible to the rest of the world, can change everything.

The fact is: the events of a life are linked by a chain of cause and consequence that never stops. That doesn't break when nobody's watching. That doesn't pause because nothing tangible was produced.

Every moment counts. Every action. Every thought.

"The big day" or "the moment of truth" carries no more weight in the chain than the links that came before – and the ones that will follow.

Trace back the act that transformed your life, and at its source you'll find a moment no one noticed.

It doesn't look like much, but it's been a battle for a long time.

On one side, there was me: nice guy, makes films, likes to laugh.

On the other, there was my professional persona: managing director of a production company looking for clients.

So I had two websites. One of which I could barely create content for (the professional one). And another that filled itself up (creative work).

For a long time, I kept telling myself: "if only I could bring all of this together and just be one person!" Trust me, I tried.

But every time, the same fear caught up with me:

What if my corporate clients stumble on one of my jokes? Or one of my posts about meditation? What will they think?

Every time, I'd comb through my personal posts looking for the one that might scare off a "serious client." So I stayed paralysed.

Recently, it even went up a notch:

I do narrative strategy now – and it's going very well, thank you. So I had THREE websites. And every social media account was doubled: professional and personal.

I could tell things were blending: my professional clients would mention some of my personal videos – positively! And some people who followed my beatnik videos were asking for consulting.

The last straw:

A LinkedIn message from a stranger I'd just connected with. Cold outreach. So insincere, so artificial, so transparent in its attempt at "I'm pretending to be interested but actually I have something to sell" that... it made me furious.

I refuse to deal with that kind of crap. I don't want that slimy obsequiousness in my daily life. I'd rather have fewer clients, less success, less of everything, but... not that.

Besides, I can't keep writing about alignment in articles and videos and then go hide behind my role as a company director when it comes to my own work. So:

1. I removed that guy from my contacts
2. I wanted to quit LinkedIn (not yet, but maybe soon.)
3. but above all:

I spent a week moving the content from my professional websites onto my personal site. The only filter: do I like this post? Is it sincere? Could it resonate with someone? And never again: what will the COO of XYZ think?

The fact is: this work started a while ago.

Since I've been doing narrative strategy, my clients are people who are like me. People I get along with. People around whom I'm myself, and they are too.

So there's no longer any need to pretend.

Or rather: I'm going to organise my life so that there's no longer any need to pretend.

Because at some point, it's a choice.

This is a question I'm asking out loud.

Often, I'm in a hurry and I'm not sure the few words I throw down here are of any interest.

At the same time, it forces me each morning to do the following exercise:

1. Search within myself for what is true and sincere,
2. Express it in a way that others can understand.

In this regard, it's different from my personal journal where I stop at step 1.

Still, I wonder if I shouldn't take all this in a new direction.

I ask myself the same question about my daily videos. At some point, I'm going to get tired of talking about meditation and creation, right? It's already starting.

I think I'd like to create more on a daily basis (fiction, abstraction, poetry?) but I don't yet see what or how.

However, I think the best way to transform this activity is to keep at it. With the same regularity. Keep doing what's easy, especially when I don't have time.

That's how you find what feels aligned.