So make music, even when nobody is listening. Draw a picture when nobody is watching. Write a short story that no one will read. The inner joys and satisfaction will be more than enough to make you carry on with your life. If you have succeeded in doing so, then you have made yourself a master of being in the here and now.
– The Little Book of Ikigai, Ken Mogi, 2017.
In Japanese culture, there is a concept called ikigai. Iki means life, and gai means reason. Every person is capable of fi nding their own ikigai. The path to discovering it involves, among other things, “small beginnings” and focusing on “the here and now”. It’s something you do for the pure joy of it, without expecting anything in return. It’s about letting go of control, which ultimately allows you to recognise your Self more deeply. A brief pause in the present moment – like enjoying a cup of coff ee without sugar (because that’s how you like it), playing a piece on the pi-ano that you’ve been repeating for years, or taking a fi fteen-minute walk just for the sake of walking – these are moments of devotion to something simple, like savouring strawberries, stretching, or tuning into your body before re-entering the buzz of everyday life.
Strange questions arise when I try to pin-point that small, simple action that could be my ikigai – existential questions about impermanence and death. How will I re-member myself? Not what I’ve made of myself. Not what others expected of me and what I exhausted myself to fulfi ll in order to meet their expectations. Not for what I aimed for and perhaps achieved, or for what I convinced myself I was. Who am I really, and who will I have been? When we strip away the layers of our modern life, often digital existence – although it allows us to be everywhere at once – we stay confi ned within our phys-ical reality. Perhaps the deepest dive we can take is into our own soul.
So who am I without the pressure from both outside and within – without the constant drive to develop , to change, to live more intensely, faster, healthier – or to resist all of that?
The philosopher Michel Foucault wrote that we are constantly subject to power that aff ects us both externally and internally. We all exercise power over others and our-selves, and it’s neither wholly positive nor wholly negative – it simply exists as part of our social fabric. So who am I without the pressure from both outside and with-in – without the constant drive to develop, to change, to live more intensely, faster, healthier – or to resist all of that? While this pressure provides stability and purpose, it also exists as a transgressive force.
To escape this, I turn inward, seeking to defi ne my ikigai – to block out the infl uenc-es that have shaped me, and that continue to shape me. Is that even possible? Who am I when I am simply standing alone, my feet on the ground, unburdened – emp-tied? No psychology, no relationships, no profession, no possessions – not even the clothes I feel obligated to wear. Who am I without a specifi c goal or plan? Where are my roots? Not my geographical ori-gin, not my religion or non-religious a ffi l-iation, not my nationality, not my family status, nor my sexual orientation. Where is the deepest point within me that no one can touch?
The place for which there is no vocabulary, where even I no longer know who or what I am. Is it vast or small? In essence, it should be simple – to dive into my own consciousness and just be. The constitution states, “Human dignity is inviolable”. Politically, too, there exists this space – free from obligations – a space that must be protected in its essence, and nothing else.
What simple, small thing could I de-scribe that captures me more than I can describe it? Something modest, perhaps inconspicuous, even useless – something that wastes time. I shy away from this because, also I am infl uenced by the pres-sure to be productive.
Returning to Fou-cault: power is not something individuals possess or control; it is a diff use, perva-sive force. The answer might lie in a surprisingly simple idea: lying down. From the out-side, this might be interpreted negative-ly – a sign of depression, apathy, or even laziness. But it is none of these things. Sometimes, I lie down like a baby – with-out a thought, forgetting myself, letting my thoughts drift. It’s the only way I can write. But this mindlessness doesn’t al-ways lead to words, sentences, or insights. It can, but it doesn’t have to. At its core, it’s just present – a formless, open space of possibility. So I lie there, and I am. In the future, I will lie. After birth, we lie for a long time until our body fi nds some-thing else to do. In death, we lie. I stare into the metaphorical void. I blink with-out realising it. I breathe out and smile. I smell the air. I feel my cheekbones be-cause I breathe into them, making my face warm and soft, my forehead buzzing with warmth – relaxation. The lower half of my body is drawn into the surface I lie on – gravity. My body becomes entirely porous, and the lightness of lying down makes me float.
Lying down is not just a physical state. It’s a mindset, a con-viction, a statement, a peaceful protest. In this way, I resist all the internalised pressure whose origins are now unclear. I surrender to tranquility, letting my body do the simplest act possible: exist. I’m not sleeping, because regular sleep is a com-pulsive necessity. Lying down, however, is a free choice. It is not procrastination, but gusto. It’s listening to time. It’s stor-ing energy and being silent. It’s allowing my thoughts to fl ow internally without judgment, letting them chatter until they dissolve into the continuous stream of neurons. Following the idea of il dolce far niente – sweet idleness – a philosophy of life and conscious withdrawal from pro-ductivity without guilt. I continue and simply feel my life, the one that belongs solely to me, never to be repeated in the same way. I don’t know if I will remember anything after death. But if I were dead now, how would I reflect on the little bit of life I’ve had?
In this modest simplicity of existence, we are all connected. If I had to die now, I would remember these moments.
This train of thought brings me back to the present moment, and I feel connect-ed to all living things. I breathe in sync with everything that now has the chance to live. That’s probably the least I can do – plain and simple. In this modest simplic-ity of existence, we are all connected. If I had to die now, I would remember these moments – this most essential thing that often gets lost in the everyday grind, making life feel repetitive, mechanical, and sometimes meaningless – until I sneak back into this space, this non-place, tiny as a grain of sand, yet holding the po-tential to expand into infi nity. It’s where my thoughts think themselves out, only to think themselves back in, and I briefl y rediscover this devotion to Self, for which there is no word. Ikigai – is almost it.