Eric Tian

I’ve come to know a fair few people in the years I’ve been alive. Yet, it’s difficult to say how many I would call friends. Many of them are simply people that existed around me at the same place at the same time, like school or the neighbourhood. There aren’t many I would call my friend.

So what makes one a friend? Is it how long you’ve known someone? How aligned your values are? Or perhaps it’s how much mutual respect you have for one another?

Upon reflection, there’s really only one trait that determines whether I deem someone a friend.

Emotional safety.

It doesn’t matter if you worship money, God or happiness. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich, poor or average. It doesn’t matter if you like running, gymming or neither (running is the best though).

If I can openly talk to you and feel safe from judgment or ridicule, then you’re a friend.

This seems like a low bar, but it is one that is quite rare. To listen quietly while facing a broken and torn spirit is one of the highest qualities people can exhibit. While I try my best for those around me, I constantly fail.

What I’ve noticed is that my closest friends, while ranging across diverse interests and values, all make me feel safe. Those that I feel unsafe around, I unconsciously stay away from.

The ability to give emotional safety is one of those qualities that make man just a little bit more divine.

Two weeks ago, I started reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace. It’s a book that I’ve always wanted to read since it has a rich history and the title is great. My Russian in-laws have also proclaimed it as one of the greatest literary works of all time, so that’s hard to ignore.

Yet, War and Peace is tough. In the first five chapters, there are over twenty characters introduced, all with particular titles and quirks. Various people share the same first name and there’s a grandfather and grandson that share exactly the same name: Prince Nikolay Bolkonsky. Some people even have multiple names – Natalya is also Natasha, while Yelena is also Helene.

As a result, War and Peace initially stumped me. After reading ten chapters, I had to restart the book, defeated. However, as I really wanted to read this book, I started again and followed the first five chapters with pen and paper, taking rigorous notes to remember the characters. It was an unusual way of reading and frankly, pretty tough.

But then something beautiful occurred: a breakthrough. Suddenly, I became immersed in the story enough that I could naturally follow the plot. I cannot describe the beauty of this moment; it’s like listening to a phone call between two strangers and realising what they were talking about. Your world is transformed.

And now, War and Peace is one of the most extraordinary stories that I’ve ever come across. Tolstoy really is an amazing storyteller. I’ll probably make another post once I’m finished with this epic, but here’s to fighting past difficult texts and finding breakthrough moments.

It seems in many areas, the hardest hill to overcome is the one at the start.

Yesterday, I was flipping through an old journal entry from age 17. The question I was pondering then was, “what is my identity?” of which I wrote:

Table tennis athlete, musician, student.

Reading this entry startled me, for now I wouldn’t recognise two of those three titles as my own. I stopped playing competitive table tennis two years ago, and last touched my viola around the same time. Only being a student has remained the same, albeit now in a different time and place.

It’s interesting to see how our identity shifts with time. Someone who played football in high school can’t call himself an athlete forever. Someone who left a business two years ago can’t keep calling himself a businessman. At some stage, we pick up new interests, spend our time in different ways and give ourselves new identities.

Discarding old titles can hurt. A lot. One of the most traumatic events of my childhood occurred when I removed the title of having a father. It’s natural to want consistency in our identity. Change can be a real disorienting pain in the ass. Yet, short-term trauma is often necessary for long-term progress so for the sake of growth, we endure.

Now, five years later, my answer to the identity question is something closer to:

Reader, writer, explorer of ideas.

Today I caught up with a close friend, spent time with loved ones, learned something new, read a book, exercised a bit and had meaningful conversations. As a whole, it was wonderful.

Time has made me realise that good days always look pretty similar. They all have some combination of the above elements, plus a few other things.

Crucially, good days also don’t have certain elements; things that threaten to make the day a little less bright. These aren’t immediately obvious but can be noticed with enough effort. Some of these forbidden elements include excessive social media, gaming or spending money on material goods.

Once I know what good days look like, perhaps it’ll be easier to recreate more good days.

Here’s to many more good days in the future.

We were born naked, blind; unable to read, speak or type and yet here we are.

Every day provided food for spiritual, physical and mental growth until we grew to the people we are today.

As a kid, you might’ve thought walking was impossible. Then when you walked, you might’ve thought running was impossible. Then when you ran, you might’ve thought jumping was impossible. But within a few years, you’re now walking, running, jumping and doing all sorts of weird and wonderful things.

We were not born ready, but we can sure learn to be ready for anything. The possibilities are exciting, yet a little frightening.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed I tend to be the opposite to my surroundings.

When people are happy with the world, I think of reasons to be sad. When people talk smack about others, I think of the great traits they might have.

When someone gives me a piece of advice, I think of reasons why they’re wrong. When everyone is following a trend, I look at the trend left behind. When I catch myself doing something ‘normie’, it gets eliminated.

In other words, I have a proclivity for chaos.

Why am I like this? Do I subconsciously desire balance? Do I want to see the other side properly represented? Or perhaps I’m just very disagreeable?

Whatever the case, it seems to do more good than harm. For instance,

• Seeing someone with an illness motivates me to be healthy.
• Seeing someone freak out motivates me to stay calm.
• Seeing someone despair at the world motivates me to count my blessings.

Interestingly, the inverse of these cases don’t bother me so much. Seeing a great body doesn’t motivate me to eat junk food, but I think of the sacrifices one had to make to create it. This makes me respect them and I love the world more.

Being an anti-chameleon is strange, but fun.

Cheers to my brilliant fellow anti-chameleon Derek Sivers for this idea.

Sometimes, it feels like the world stops you from doing what you want.

Perhaps you’d like to start a business. Write a blog. Start a YouTube channel. Rekindle old friendships. Or maybe it’s time for those six-pack abs you always wanted. But frustratingly, there’s just not enough time right now to do them all.

The solution to this dilemma can be found in Buridan’s ass.

Imagine a donkey that is placed exactly halfway between a bucket of water and a stack of hay. Because it is no closer to either option, it keeps looking left and right, unable to choose one. This goes on until the ass – paralysed by indecision – dies of both hunger and thirst.

Buridan’s ass can’t plan for the future. If it could, it would realise that it could first go to the water, then go eat the hay.

We can avoid Buridan’s ass. We can do everything we want to do with foresight and patience. The solution is to plan things one at a time. If you’re twenty and there’s five things you want to do, try doing one thing at a time for ten years. You’ll probably live until seventy to get them all done. This way, you can fully focus on one pursuit at a time without feeling conflicted because you know you’ll get to the others.

Most of us overestimate what we can do in one year, and underestimate what we can do with ten.

Let’s think long-term. Don’t be a donkey.

Credits to Derek Sivers for this idea. Buridan’s ass is also traditionally used for discussions surrounding free will. If you’d like to read more, here’s a skeptical article towards Buridan’s ass’ illustration of free will.

Let’s do some maths.

The average book has 60,000 – 100,000 words. Let’s go with 100,000.

The average reading speed is 250 – 300 words per minute. Let’s go with 250. Note that this range is for mental readers; auditory or visual readers can read up to much faster speeds.

So if a book has 100,000 words, then reading at a pace of 300 words per minute means you’ll finish a book in 100,000 / 300 = 333.33 minutes, or roughly 5 hours and 30 minutes, or 11 blocks of 30 minutes.

That means if you just spend half an hour reading each day, you can pretty much finish most books in two weeks – and that’s if you’re reading a biggish book and reading slowly.

This reading pace of 30 minutes each day results in finishing The Great Gatsby in five days; Life of Pi in twelve days; and War and Peace – one of the largest classics ever written – in just over two months. Not much time at all, considering these texts have single-handedly turned societies around and changed people’s hearts.

Often, it’s the small practices done consistently that drive the biggest results.