A man who always lives in the past
He likes to consume media from past decades. He is living in 2025, but he listens to songs and watches movies made from the 1970s to the 2010s.
Of course, he knows that many people enjoy media even older than his preferences—songs and movies from the 1950s or 1960s, or even the 1930s and 1940s. There are also people who collect things from way back; the older it is, the better.
It’s not a competition. But why does he feel irritated when he realizes that others in the world share his hobbies—or, rather, his mindset—and sometimes take it even further than he does? He feels as though he is no longer unique, as if others have beaten him at his own game. He guesses he just wants to be different, to have something uniquely his own—for now.
At other times, he wishes to share his passion with others: his adventures, his personal discoveries. Yet, deep down, he is not truly trying to be different. The media he consumes—he simply wants to keep it to himself. He is selfish like that.
Or perhaps, it’s not selfishness. Maybe he just wants to exist in a place no one can reach, a place where he feels safe, untouchable, invisible. Completely secure.
But he doesn’t realize that he already lives in such a state: he is, more or less, invisible in this world. Not because no one could reach him if they wanted to, but because they don’t want to—they are disinterested. They never will.
Everything has two sides, you see.
The things we chase are often the things we don’t have—or think we don’t have. Sometimes, we don’t realize these things are already within reach. All we have to do is grab them. All we have to do is acknowledge we possess them. But if what you want is the chase itself, not the object of the chase, that’s a whole different story—or perhaps not. If you want the chase, then you’re already chasing. Therefore, you already have what you desire.
The most reasonable explanation for his pursuit is this: he seeks the ability to choose. The luxury of choice. The freedom to select. Add all the cool phrases you can think of here. He is greedy, though not in a monetary sense.
But what would he do if he were given all the choices?
To maintain the freedom to choose takes extra effort—effort unnecessary for survival. Nature gives us only one option at a time: to breathe air or water, to walk or swim. Rarely do we see animals capable of both, like frogs, which can transform from swimmers to jumpers. Perhaps this reasoning sounds binary, and philosophical musings about life and nature require a stronger foundation than this. Nonetheless, it seems wasteful to have all the options but be able to follow only one.
Of course, if you don’t necessarily have to choose one, just pursue what you like until you tire of it, then switch to something else. The ability to choose remains intact. The more options you have, the better. But if you have too many options, you may not even know which to choose. That’s a classic first-world problem, and we won’t delve into it here.
For most people, and the majority of their problems, choosing isn’t always so easy. Sometimes, the choices you make stick with you for an hour, a week, a month, a year—or even a lifetime.
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