Here’s the unnerving truth glimpsed in the video: when we call control “caring,” we don’t just lie to each other—we drown love in anxiety. bell hooks’s radical redefinition strips away the romantic camouflage and demands we ask: are you nurturing freedom, or managing fear?The rest of this PhiloDose presses into the single revelation most of us run from—the one that unravels every “just checking in” and “only because I care.” It’s a clarity that, once you have it, makes your own hidden motivations uncomfortably visible.Below the gate, we walk through the exact mechanism, from the nervous system to the heart, and arrive at the one question that changes everything. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

She was thirty-four when she said it. Not to me—to the ceiling, or to herself, in that hour after midnight when sentences emerge half-formed and more honest than anyone intended.“I know he won’t change. But I’ve already spent seven years believing he would. If I leave now, what was all that belief for?”There it is. The thing with no official name that nevertheless governs more adult decisions than reason ever will.She wasn’t staying because she loved him, though she would have told you she did. She wasn’t staying because she was afraid of being alone, though that was in the mix. She was staying because leaving would mean confronting something more destabilising than loneliness: the possibility that her capacity for hope had been working against her this whole time.This is not a relationship problem. This is a structure of attachment so pervasive that Lauren Berlant, the late cultural theorist, spent decades tracking its appearance across nearly every domain of contemporary life. She gave it a name that lands like a diagnosis you didn’t know you were waiting for.Cruel optimism.Not optimism that fails. Not optimism that was misplaced. Optimism that is cruel—that actively harms you—precisely because it works so well at keeping you oriented toward something that will never arrive.The Attrition of the Good LifeBerlant didn’t invent the feeling she was describing. She noticed it everywhere and gave it conceptual rigour, but the phenomenon predates her naming of it. What she formalised in her 2011 book Cruel Optimism was something that had been accumulating cultural pressure for decades.The postwar compact—the one that promised stability in exchange for conformity, that tied flourishing to a specific sequence of achievements—that compact started fraying in the 1970s and, by the turn of the century, had become something closer to a collective haunting. People kept orienting themselves toward the same clusters of desires: the enduring romantic partnership, the career that provides both meaning and security, the body that cooperates, the political system that eventually listens. But the material conditions for realising those desires kept deteriorating.Berlant’s insight wasn’t that people should update their desires to match reality. That’s the economist’s solution, the life-hacker’s advice. Her insight was stranger and more unsettling: we often maintain our attachment to the desired object precisely because it doesn’t arrive. The waiting, the striving, the perpetual almost—these become their own form of nourishment.You know this already. You’ve felt it. The relationship where the problem isn’t that you’re miserable all the time—it’s that you’re miserable 70% of the time and the other 30% feels like evidence that the whole thing might still work. The job where the promise of recognition hovers just one more project away, has hovered there for three years. The creative ambition that has organised your identity since you were nineteen but has never quite materialised into the life you imagined, and meanwhile you’ve passed on fourteen other lives you might have lived.The cruelty isn’t in the wanting. The cruelty is in how the wanting sustains you—keeps you functional, keeps you oriented, keeps you from having to face the possibility that the object of your desire was never going to deliver what you asked of it. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

You already know the feeling. You say yes to something — a meeting, a favour, a social arrangement that will consume your Tuesday evening — and the word hasn’t even left your mouth before some internal thread snaps. The yes costs you immediately, in dread, before the event itself has extracted anything. This is not a mistake you made once. It is a pattern, and the pattern has a smell: the faint incense of resentful obligation, the roommate you never wanted but somehow keep accommodating.What’s strange is how old the mechanism is. Henry David Thoreau didn’t have a calendar full of sync meetings or a group chat silently judging his absence. But he noticed something about the way consent gets hollowed out. He noticed that if you cannot say no, your yes is not a choice. It’s a reflex. And a reflex, in a social animal, is almost always someone else’s program running on your hardware.The moment people talk about boundaries, the conversation veers into self-care, as if saying no were a luxury bath product. Thoreau would have thrown the bath product out the window. For him, the inability to refuse was a political condition. It meant someone else owned the infrastructure of your decision-making. And his whole project — the cabin, the tax resistance, the night in jail — was an experiment in getting that infrastructure back.This isn’t about becoming disagreeable. It’s about noticing that when you cannot refuse, your agreement becomes a counterfeit currency. You hand it to people who have learned they don’t need to convince you; they only need to avoid triggering the no that never comes. The result is a life papered over with obligations that nobody, including you, fully believes you want.One of the most quoted lines from “Civil Disobedience” contains a quieter, more devastating observation. A man has not everything to do, but something; and because he cannot do everything, it is not necessary that he should do something wrong. The logic is tighter than it appears: if you are always available for everything, you become incapable of doing the thing that is actually yours to do. Your diffuse yes becomes a distributed betrayal of whatever mattered most.So the question Thoreau poses across two centuries is practical: what would have to be true for you to have a yes that meant something? His answer begins not with grand refusal, but with the smallest architecture of daily life.The Night in Jail Nobody Asked ForIn July 1846, Thoreau walked into Concord to pick up a mended shoe and walked out of the tax collector’s office having refused to pay his poll tax. He’d been withholding for years, not because he was opposed to all taxation, but because this particular tax funded the Mexican-American War and the enforcement of slavery. The state, in his view, had stopped being a neutral container for civic life and had become an active instrument of harm. Paying would have been complicity. So he didn’t pay.The constable, a man named Sam Staples, offered to cover the tax himself. Thoreau refused. Staples locked him up. The jail was unlocked and poorly attended; Thoreau spent one night there before someone — probably his aunt — paid the tax anonymously the next morning. He was reportedly annoyed. The gesture was meant to last, to crystallise into a position. Instead it became a story.What’s easy to miss in the familiar civil disobedience narrative is that Thoreau wasn’t trying to launch a movement. He wasn’t performing a protest for history. He was calibrating his own interior machinery. He had realised something about obligation that applies just as sharply to the 4pm Thursday meeting you were already writing the follow-up email for before it ended: the obligation doesn’t originate with you, but it persists because you haven’t given your own refusal a body. You haven’t built the muscle that makes your yes count.His cabin at Walden Pond, which most people remember as a retreat from society, was the same experiment on a slower timeline. By reducing his material dependencies — growing beans, building his own shelter, stripping away the middlemen between himself and sustenance — he was also reducing the number of people who held a claim on his time without his deliberate consent. Every unnecessary need was a potential obligation waiting to be weaponised. Every superfluous possession was a thread someone could pull to make you dance.The mechanism he uncovered is uncomfortable: most of what we call obligation is just dependency that hasn’t been examined. You need the income, so you tolerate the boss who emails at 10pm. You need the social belonging, so you attend the dinner where you’ll spend three hours performing a version of yourself you don’t recognise. The dependency isn’t always material. Sometimes it’s emotional, reputational, existential. Thoreau’s project was to starve the dependencies he couldn’t ethically accept, until his yes could be given rather than extracted.That night in jail, short as it was, wasn’t a failure of protest. It was a successful test of a single boundary. He discovered he could do it and the world didn’t end. That’s more than most of us can say about the requests we’ve been meaning to decline for months. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

You light the heavy glass candle. You launch the ten-minute guided meditation. You drag the cold jade roller across your jawline. Underneath the choreographed tranquility is a quiet, vibrating resentment. The Sunday evening routine was supposed to be the antidote to the workweek, but it feels suspiciously like an extension of it. The checklist of relaxation carries its own administrative weight. We do not rest to recover our humanity; we rest to repair our utility.For most of human history, leisure was the absence of labor. It was empty time. You sat on a porch. You stared at a fire. But the factory model changed the architecture of the week. Industrial capitalism could not afford workers who burned out entirely, so it invented the weekend. The weekend was never a gift; it was a pit stop.The purpose of time off was strictly to ensure you could return to the assembly line on Monday morning without collapsing into the machinery. We stopped having free time and started having recovery time. The distinction is structural. Free time belongs to the individual. Recovery time is a necessary phase of the work cycle, managed and optimized to guarantee future output. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

You know the physical sensation before you even check the notification. It sits somewhere between the throat and the stomach. A tiny spike of adrenaline demanding immediate resolution. We treat this as a failure of discipline, a modern distraction we just need to meditate away.The French urbanist Paul Virilio looked at how technology accelerates human life and realised speed itself is a form of violence. The moment information arrives instantly, the gap where you used to think collapses. You are no longer living in time. You are reacting to the present.The Eradication of DelayThe problem did not start with the smartphone. It started the moment we decided faster was inherently better. The industrial logic of the twentieth century was about moving physical things across physical space with increasing efficiency. Trains, telegraphs, and fibre optic cables were built to eliminate delay.Delay was friction. Friction was waste. But delay was also where human processing happened. When a letter took two weeks to arrive, the space between sending and receiving was a necessary buffer for reflection.The acceleration of communication dismantled that buffer entirely. Virilio called this ‘dromology’—the science of speed. He saw that whoever dictates the speed of a society dictates its structure. The military was the first to realize that shrinking the time between spotting a target and destroying it wins the war.The exact same architecture was then applied to your attention. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

You keep the app you haven’t opened in six months. You date someone for three years but refuse to sign a joint lease because tying the paperwork to the romance feels like a trap. You research five different career pivots and execute none of them.The baseline anxiety of the modern professional is the terror of the closed door. We have engineered a culture where keeping your options open is the highest moral good, and actually choosing a definitive path is viewed as a failure of imagination.The sociologist Zygmunt Bauman noticed a fundamental shift in the state of society. We used to live in a solid structure. You had a hometown, a career track, a marriage, a defined community. Now, we live in a liquid state. Nothing holds its shape long enough to build on. Combine this structural fluidity with the reality of human desire—the fact that we copy our wants from the people around us, whose desires are also shifting daily—and you get the current condition. We are sprinting on a treadmill made of water, exhausted by the effort of keeping every possible future alive.Or save 25% and get 3 months freeThink about the factory worker in 1950. The bargain was brutal but highly legible. You surrender forty years of physical labor; the institution provides a pension, a gold watch, and a predictable trajectory. The social structures were heavy. They restricted movement, but they also provided a floor. If you fell, you hit the floor.Then the heavy machinery was dismantled. Capital became mobile. Work moved from the assembly line to the laptop. The cultural narrative shifted from duty to self-actualization. We celebrated the death of the institution because institutions were stifling. We cheered when the heavy, solid structures melted into networks, gigs, and personal brands.The promise was total friction-free freedom. You can live anywhere, be anyone, and reinvent your entire persona every morning. The trade-off was the removal of the floor. You are now the sole architect of your survival, tasked with building a stable life out of materials that are designed to flow away from you. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

Most people think the opposite of fragility is resilience. They assume that if they can endure a physical or psychological shock and return to their baseline, they have succeeded. But merely bouncing back is not enough. The real distinction lies between a system that simply resists damage and an antifragile system that actively requires damage to grow.The Core Distinction: Chronic Decay vs. Acute AdaptationWe frequently confuse the types of stress our bodies endure. The modern environment has inverted our evolutionary needs, replacing necessary friction with a low-grade hum of anxiety:* Acute Stress (The Nutrient): Brief, intense spikes of environmental friction—like fasting, extreme temperatures, or heavy physical exertion. These are hormetic stressors. They signal the body to adapt, rebuild, and fortify its baseline.* Chronic Stress (The Toxin): Low-grade, perpetual background noise—sleep deprivation, constant digital stimulation, and metabolic overload. This type of stress signals the body to panic and break down, offering no adaptive release.Why Biological Sovereignty Demands FrictionWhen we pursue absolute comfort, we outsource our survival to external systems. We rely on temperature-controlled rooms, endless caloric abundance, and highly sanitized environments. This feels like safety, but it is actually the surrender of biological sovereignty. An antifragile organism is highly efficient: if a capacity is not actively tested by the environment, the body dismantles it to save energy. When you remove all physical friction, you do not protect your biology—you actively dismantle your own armor.The Danger of the “Safety” IllusionMissing this distinction leaves us highly vulnerable. By avoiding acute stressors in the name of safety, our immune and structural systems lack adversaries. The result is atrophy. We become hyper-sensitized to minor fluctuations in our environment because we have lost the internal capacity to adapt to them. The padded room does not make you strong; it makes the outside world lethal.To reclaim your biological sovereignty, you must change your relationship with discomfort. Friction, hunger, and cold are not signs that something has gone wrong in your environment. They are the precise biological information your body needs to remember how to be strong. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

Most of us experience the modern obsession with self-optimization—the relentless tracking of sleep cycles, the micromanagement of macronutrients, the ambient guilt of an “unproductive” weekend—as a purely private problem. When you stare at the glowing interface of your smartwatch, dismayed that your “recovery score” is suboptimal, you likely internalize this as a personal failure. You tell yourself you need more discipline, better habits, a more rigorous morning routine. We have been conditioned to view our exhaustion, our sickness, and our desperate pursuit of wellness as individual moral dramas played out in the theater of our own biology.But the 20th-century French philosopher Michel Foucault suggests something far more unsettling: your relentless drive to optimize your own biology is not a personal choice, but the ultimate triumph of a system designed to harvest your vitality.This Deep Dive examines Foucault’s groundbreaking concept of Biopower—the insidious, invisible mechanism through which modern institutions govern not by threatening death, but by ruthlessly managing life. We will explore what this concept actually means, why it is the defining architecture of our hyper-technological age, where it hides in plain sight within wellness culture and corporate HR departments, and what profoundly changes once you can name the invisible cage that surrounds you.Inside this session, we will unpack:* The Concept in Plain English: How power shifted from the medieval sword to the modern stethoscope.* The Real Argument: Why the system doesn’t want to destroy you, but rather needs you perfectly healthy, highly productive, and utterly docile.* Where It Shows Up Now: The hidden biopolitics of wearable technology, biohacking, and the modern workplace.* The Hidden Cost: What we lose when we allow algorithms and economic imperatives to define what it means to be “well.”* The Practical Lens: How to reclaim sovereignty over your own life force without descending into nihilism.By the end of this session, you will be able to identify the vast, historical structure behind your modern exhaustion, instead of merely feeling its agonizing effects. You will never look at your health, your habits, or your smartwatch the same way again.Or save 25% and get 3 months freeThe Sovereign’s Sword vs. The Doctor’s Chart: A Brief History of PowerTo understand how your vitality was captured, we must first understand how power used to operate. For most of human history, power was theatrical, violent, and defined by deduction—specifically, the deduction of life.Foucault frames this historical shift masterfully. In the classical age of sovereignty (think of absolute monarchs in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance), power was exercised primarily through the right to kill. The sovereign proved his authority by taking things away: taking a portion of the harvest as tax, taking the time and labor of the peasant, and, ultimately, taking the blood of the traitor. Power was the sword. It was the right to make die or let live. If you did not cross the king, you were largely left alone in your squalor. The sovereign did not care about your diet, your mental health, or your daily habits, so long as you paid your tithes and did not revolt.But as the 18th century dawned, a profound mutation occurred. The industrial revolution was accelerating, capitalism was taking root, and the nation-state was solidifying. Suddenly, monarchs and governments realized that a sickly, starving, unmanaged population was a terrible economic asset. You cannot run a profitable factory, nor field a massive modern army, with peasants who are dropping dead of cholera or crippled by malnutrition.Power had to evolve. It could no longer afford to merely threaten death; it had to begin managing life.Foucault called this new paradigm Biopower. It inverted the old sovereign rule. Biopower is the power to make live and let die. It is an explosion of numerous and diverse techniques for achieving the subjugation of bodies and the control of populations.The era of the spectacular public execution was replaced by the era of the prison timetable, the hospital chart, the psychiatric evaluation, and the public health mandate. Power moved from the executioner’s scaffold to the clinic, the schoolroom, and the factory floor. Institutions arose to measure, categorize, and optimize the human animal. Demographics, birth rates, hygiene protocols, and longevity became matters of state security and economic necessity.Through this lens, the history of modern medicine, psychology, and public health is not merely a triumphant march of scientific progress and humanitarian benevolence. It is also the history of a new, capillary form of control—one that seeped into the very pores of the citizenry. The state and the market realized that the most valuable resource on earth was not gold or land, but the biological vitality of the human species. And to harvest it, they had to measure it. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

Most of us experience the modern condition—a persistent, low-grade vertigo, a feeling of being overwhelmed by contradictory information, and a creeping sense of atomization—as a purely private problem. We sit alone in the glow of our screens, feeling a profound “reality fatigue,” and we blame our own neurochemistry, our lack of discipline, or our inability to simply “keep up” with the world. We treat our existential exhaustion as a personal failing that might be cured by another productivity hack or a weekend digital detox.But early twentieth-century Baltic-German biologist Jakob von Uexküll introduced a concept that suggests something far more unsettling. He proposed that we are all trapped within our own Umwelt—the self-centered, biologically and environmentally constrained world of the organism. Applied to the digital age, this concept delivers a piercing thesis: You are not experiencing reality; you are experiencing a heavily mediated, algorithmically constrained simulation of it—and your failure to recognize the boundaries of this simulation is the root of your modern despair.This Deep Dive examines the architecture of our invisible terrariums. We will explore what the Umwelt actually means outside of biology, why it matters urgently in an era of algorithmic curation, where it subtly dictates our behavior in work, technology, relationships, and politics, and what radically changes once you can name the walls of your own perception clearly.Inside this session, we will break down the concept in plain English and uncover the real argument behind it: that our minds have been colonized by inherited media narratives. We will trace where this colonization shows up right now in our hyper-polarized society, examine the hidden psychological cost of ignoring it, and provide a highly practical lens—a rigorous, five-step “Perception Audit”—to take away and apply immediately.By the end of this session, you will be able to identify the invisible structure behind your modern symptoms of anxiety and narrative vertigo, instead of merely feeling their effects. You will transition from a passive consumer of reality to its conscious architect.Or save 25% and get 3 months freeThe Origins of the Bubble: A Brief History of the UmweltTo understand the invisible walls of our modern perception, we must first travel back to 1934, when Jakob von Uexküll published his seminal work, A Foray into the Worlds of Animals and Humans. Uexküll was a pioneer of biosemiotics, and he was fascinated by a seemingly simple question: What does the world look like to a tick?Before Uexküll, science largely assumed there was one objective world, a single stage upon which all animals lived and interacted. Uexküll shattered this assumption. He observed that a blind, deaf tick hanging on a branch in a vibrant, bustling forest experiences absolutely none of the forest’s complexity. The tick’s entire universe is reduced to just three signals: the scent of butyric acid (emitted by the skin glands of mammals), the temperature of 37 degrees Celsius (the heat of mammalian blood), and the tactile sensation of hair.To the tick, the visual beauty of the trees, the song of the birds, and the rustling of the wind do not exist. They are not merely ignored; they are entirely outside of its Umwelt—its subjective, perceptual world. The tick’s reality is a bespoke tunnel, perfectly calibrated for its survival but utterly blind to the broader objective reality (what Immanuel Kant would call the noumenal world, the thing-in-itself).Uexküll’s profound realization was that every organism lives in its own specific Umwelt. A dog’s world is a rich tapestry of olfactory gradients; an eagle’s world is a high-resolution topographical map of movement. And human beings are no exception. We flatter ourselves by believing that our advanced brains grant us access to “base reality.” But biologically, we are blind to ultraviolet light, deaf to high-frequency dog whistles, and insensitive to the magnetic fields that guide migratory birds. Our biological Umwelt is just as constrained as the tick’s, merely tuned to different frequencies.However, the human Umwelt contains a secondary, far more complex layer. Unlike the tick, whose reality is dictated solely by genetics, the human reality is dictated by culture, language, and media. We do not merely inherit a biological filter; we inherit a socio-cultural one. In the 20th century, media theorist Walter Lippmann observed in Public Opinion that the real environment is “altogether too big, too complex, and too fleeting for direct acquaintance.” Thus, we construct “pseudo-environments”—simplified mental models of the world.In the 21st century, this dynamic has been weaponized. Our modern Umwelt is no longer just a passive cultural inheritance; it is an aggressively engineered terrarium. Algorithms, news cycles, and social media feeds act as digital butyric acid, feeding us hyper-specific stimuli designed to trigger outrage, engagement, and tribal loyalty. We are living in a bespoke, algorithmic Umwelt, convinced we are seeing the whole forest, when in reality, we are just reacting to the heat and the scent of the next passing mammal. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com

Most people experience the modern exhaustion of “never enough” as a purely private problem—a quiet, gnawing sense of personal failure. You scroll through a curated feed, witness the milestones, the aesthetics, the effortless successes of others, and suddenly your own life feels intolerably inadequate. We tend to internalize this envy as a psychological defect, a lack of gratitude, or a failure of ambition. We believe that if we just worked harder, optimized our routines, or finally acquired that elusive next thing, the phantom hunger would subside.But the 19th-century philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer suggests something far more unsettling: your desires are not actually your own, but rather the manifestations of a blind, insatiable, and irrational force that has now been flawlessly weaponized by digital algorithms to keep you starving.This Deep Dive examines the architecture of artificial desire—what Schopenhauer’s concept of the “Will” actually means, why it is the defining philosophical framework for the age of the infinite scroll, where it subtly dictates our careers, relationships, and political anxieties, and what fundamentally changes once you can clearly name the invisible code writing your wants.Inside this session:* The Concept in Plain English: Unpacking Schopenhauer’s “Will” and why human beings are biologically and psychologically wired for perpetual dissatisfaction.* The Real Argument: How digital platforms evolved from mere communication tools into “Envy Engines,” perfectly designed to hack your innate striving.* Where It Shows Up Now: The blurred lines between your authentic psychological drives and the desires implanted in you by the creator economy and mimetic culture.* The Hidden Cost: The psychological toll of treating algorithmic milestones as personal destinies.* The Practical Lens: A comprehensive framework for auditing your deepest desires, starving the algorithm of envy, and reclaiming the “will to not want.”By the end of this session, you will be able to identify the exact structural machinery behind your modern envy, rather than merely suffering its effects in the dark.Or save 25% and get 3 months freeBackground & Context: The Prophet of Pessimism in the Digital AgeTo understand the crisis of modern desire, we must travel back to 1818, to the publication of a book that would forever alter the landscape of Western thought: The World as Will and Representation by Arthur Schopenhauer.Born into a wealthy merchant family in Danzig, Schopenhauer was a man uniquely positioned to observe the futility of material acquisition. His father wanted him to become a businessman; Schopenhauer chose the life of a renegade intellectual. He was a notoriously curmudgeonly figure—he played the flute daily, adored his poodles (all named Atman), and harbored a fierce, lifelong rivalry with his contemporary, G.W.F. Hegel, whom he considered a charlatan.But beneath his abrasive exterior lay an intellect of terrifying clarity. Schopenhauer was deeply influenced by Immanuel Kant, who posited that we never see the world as it truly is (the noumenon), but only as it appears to us through the filters of our senses (the phenomenon). Schopenhauer took Kant’s premise and drove it to a radical conclusion. He asked: What is the underlying reality of the universe? What is the thing-in-itself hiding behind the curtain of the physical world?His answer was The Will.For Schopenhauer, the Will is not the conscious, rational decision-making process we usually associate with the word “willpower.” Rather, it is a blind, ceaseless, irrational, and cosmic striving. It is the force that makes plants grow toward the sun, magnets pull toward iron, and humans crave, reproduce, and conquer. We are not rational creatures who occasionally desire things; we are fundamentally creatures of desire who occasionally use reason to justify our cravings.Because the Will is infinite and our capacity to satisfy it is finite, Schopenhauer concluded that human life is inherently characterized by suffering. As he famously wrote: “Life swings like a pendulum backward and forward between pain and boredom.” When we lack what we desire, we feel the pain of wanting. The moment we acquire it, the satisfaction is fleeting, rapidly decaying into boredom, until the Will violently attaches itself to a new object of desire.For nearly two centuries, Schopenhauer’s philosophy was viewed as the ultimate expression of philosophical pessimism. But read in the context of the 21st century, Schopenhauer no longer reads like a pessimist. He reads like a prophet.Today, we live in an ecosystem that has industrialized the Will. The modern internet, particularly the algorithmically driven social media landscape, is the most efficient machine ever created for the stimulation of human craving. It is a frictionless environment where the pendulum never even gets the chance to swing to boredom; it is suspended perpetually in the pain of wanting. We are bombarded daily with thousands of images of lives we are not living, objects we do not own, and status we have not achieved.The digital age has weaponized Schopenhauer’s Will, creating an “Algorithm of Envy” that implants desires so seamlessly into our psyches that we mistake them for our own authentic ambitions. To survive this landscape with our sanity intact, we must understand the mechanics of this artificial desire. To hear more, visit www.philosopheasy.com