Here’s something that keeps me up at night:
I can ask AI to write an email, and it comes back polished, persuasive—sometimes better than what I’d write on a tired day.
I can ask it to analyze a problem, and within seconds I get an answer that sounds smarter than what I’d produce after an hour.
This should feel liberating.
Instead, it feels like standing at the edge of something I don’t quite understand yet.
Because when machines can think faster and write better, what exactly is left for us?
That question—uncomfortable, persistent—is why I’m going back to graduate school, this time to study philosophy.
And it’s also why I’ve started translating fragments from a 700-year-old Japanese text into short “thinking notes” for modern life.
Let me explain.
The monk who wrote in fragments
Around the 14th century, a Japanese Buddhist monk named Yoshida Kenkō wrote what became known as Tsurezuregusa (Essays in Idleness).
He didn’t write a systematic treatise. He didn’t build grand arguments.
Instead, he wrote in fragments—brief observations about attention, beauty, loss, choice, time. Some are a page. Some are just a few lines.
And what struck me is how the form itself teaches something.
A fragment is easy to return to.
You don’t need perfect conditions. You don’t need an hour.
You can come back for a minute—and still restart your mind.
One idea I keep returning to is simple (this is my paraphrase, not a literal translation):
When you stop trying to fill every moment, you begin to notice what your mind has been avoiding.
Because here’s what happens now: the moment I’m bored, I reach for my phone.
The moment there’s a gap, I fill it. The moment I don’t know what to do, I ask AI.
And every time I do that, I skip over something.
Not the answer.
The question underneath the question.
The problem isn’t AI. It’s speed.
Summarize. Decide. Deliver. Next.
That skill matters. But speed has a cost.
When you’re always moving toward an answer, you stop sitting with the question.
You stop noticing your assumptions. You stop asking: Wait—what do I actually mean by “good” here?
AI makes this easier—and worse.
You type a question. The answer appears. You move on.
But I’ve noticed something: the questions that matter most are the ones you can’t outsource.
- What kind of person am I becoming?
- What do I stand for when no one’s watching?
- How do I choose between two reasonable paths?
- What deserves my attention today?
Those aren’t problems to solve once. They’re tensions to live with.
And living with them requires a different skill—one that doesn’t show up on LinkedIn, but might be the most human thing we do:
the ability to return.
To come back to a question again and again, even when there’s no clear answer.
Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when AI could give you something faster.
AI can generate an answer.
But it can’t build a life around a question.
What Kenkō knew about “preparing forever”
We can spend our lives preparing—gathering information, collecting advice—until time quietly runs out.
I read that and immediately thought of my browser tabs.
Articles I’m “going to read.” Courses I’m “planning to take.” Resources I’m “gathering” before I start.
AI makes this temptation stronger. You can ask it for pros and cons, simulate every scenario, explore every angle—and end up with perfect information… and no idea what actually matters to you.
Sometimes the wisest thing isn’t to gather more data.
It’s to stop, choose, and begin.
Even if you’re not perfectly ready.
Even if the answer isn’t optimized.
Even if you might be wrong.
Because life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready.
Why philosophy (and why now)
But I wanted something more than casual curiosity.
I wanted a structure that would force me to stay with the hard questions long enough for them to change me.
So I’ve enrolled in a graduate program in philosophy at the Open University.
Not because I think it will give me all the answers.
But because I want to build the muscle for returning—to questions, to uncertainty, to the slow work of thinking carefully.
In the age of instant answers, that feels like a practical skill worth training.
A small experiment: fragments you can return to
I’m translating Kenkō’s fragments into brief “thinking notes”—not grand philosophy, not self-help. Just small prompts that help you pause:
- What am I avoiding by staying busy?
- Where is my attention actually going today?
- What would it mean to do this slowly?
These aren’t questions with final answers.
They’re questions you return to.
And in the age of AI, I think that’s the point.
If you’re wondering the same thing
I don’t know exactly where the degree will take me, or whether this little project will resonate beyond my own notebook.
But if you’ve felt that same uncomfortable question—what’s left for us when machines can do so much?—then maybe we’re working on the same thing.
Not answers.
But the practice of returning.
If you’d like, you can subscribe and I’ll share one short fragment (almost) each week—something brief you can return to whenever you need it.
See you next time.