To effectively communicate with skimmers—which is basically almost everyone on the internet—the message must be simple. Simple words, simple sentence, simple everything; no fat, no fluff, no junk; short, bite-sized, easy to understand.

Creators who create for the algorithms contort their message to rank higher, which results in messy, padded crap—twelve paragraph to say one sentence, twenty-eight-minute video to say one thing. Messy, padded crap is the last thing skimmers want!

Attention is scarce. Simple, simple, simple.

“are you using the computer or is it using you” —@amusechimp

The existence of social media detox proves how draining social media is. If these apps were tools, we would use it like we use our hammer, or bike, or chopsticks: only when needed. But these apps are not just tools of communication; these apps are the modern attention beasts.

This applies especially to YouTube: there’s something about it that makes it so addictive. YouTube is amazing: it’s becoming a modern university because of the sheer amount of useful knowledge contained there, but it’s a double-edged sword: the rabbit-holes on YouTube is a massive attention devourer.

These apps are both a blessing and a curse. Are we using it, or is it using us?

P.S. A related video by Naval Ravikant.

Fero… It has been nine years and I still remember her fondly. On the airport, before we parted ways, she said, “I’ll send you a letter once I’ve arrived at Tokyo.” We separated with a kiss, and that was the last one; I haven’t heard from her since.

The memories feel bittersweet.

“A Venti Americano please.”

“Etoo… Venti Americano… five-hundred yen,” the Starbucks cashier says as she gestures with her hand. I hand some coins to her.

“Ne-mu?”

“Sorry?”

“Ne-mu, ne-mu.”

“Name? Dous.”

My colleagues are there, in the corner, talking to our Japanese client. Today is the first day of our meeting, and I can already tell that it’s going to be boring. But, it pays t—

“Dous?!” someone exclaims. The voice sounds familiar. I look behind.

“Fero?!”

Cows, cows, cows. Your parents own some, so do your aunt and uncle; your cousins milk cows, and so do you. Your mom often tells you that you should own as many cows as you can, and she always compares you with Teggie, your cousin who owns 13 cows. Your neighbors talk about cows, their children talk about cows, everyone’s obsessed with cows!

Everyone you know spends their entire life doing cow-stuff in this small cow-filled island, and you can’t swallow the pill that you’ll have to do this your entire life. You often wonder what’s there, beyond the horizon. “Is there something out there? Anything?” you asked your parents. They retorted with, “Just focus on your cows; there’s nothing out there.” When you asked your friends and cousins the same question, they gave you the same answer.

Are these cow-people fools, or are you the crazy one? You don’t know, and neither do they.

My dear friend,

I’m writing this letter to tell you the story of my hot air balloon.

You see… people are assholes.

All I wanted was to have an air balloon that can I fly with, so built one in my backyard (which, as you know from your past visit, is a pretty damn large backyard). Because this air balloon was so conspicuous, some people began approaching me. Talking about hot air balloon with strangers was fine, but the problem was they all had guns in their pocket.

Damn guns!

The conversation with these people usually went like this.

“Howdy, you seem very busy building this hot air balloon.”

“Oh my, yes, I sure am.”

“Are you planning to go somewhere with it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going to the Himalayas.”

“Himalayas… you mean those tall mountains?”

“Yes.”

“That is a terrible plan.”

“Excuse me?”

“You fool, who do you think you are? That is a terrible plan; nobody has ever done it before, and you will fail, and you should feel bad about yourself.”

“…”

“You know what, I think you’re better off just doing some woodwork in the nearby town. I heard their pay is good.”

At this point, I didn’t want to talk anymore, but their guns just went “bam!” Bam, bam, bam; they holed my air balloon! I’ve lost count how many people have done it—dozens, or perhaps hundreds—and you won’t believe how many holes I had to stitch because of them.

What’s up with these people? I don’t know, my dear friend, but here’s a guess: maybe they don’t want me to succeed. Why don’t they want me to succeed? Maybe—just maybe—it’s because they haven’t succeeded themselves, and me successfully arriving at the peak of the Himalayas with this hot air balloon would make them feel bad. Real bad.

As I write this, I’ve finished building everything, and I’ll be departing to the Himalayas tomorrow. Had these people not shot my air balloon, I would’ve departed weeks (or months) ago.

Damn assholes.

Anyway, I’ll definitely write you another letter when I can. I heard the Himalayas is stunningly beautiful. Perhaps I can capture some of its beauty and send it to you.

Your dear friend,

The Hot Air Ballooner

Twitter is a town hall inside a screen. It’s meant for conversation; it’s void shouting with replies. If you converse and create engagement, Twitter rewards you with notifications. It doesn’t matter what you say, how much outrage you create, how much value you build: if you converse and create engagement, Twitter rewards you with notifications.

These notifications are mental candies. They’re like gummy bears for your mind, transmitted through screens. This is the most addictive town hall known to mankind; this is th—

Oh look, a new notification from Twitter! I’ll go check it. Bye.

Here’s my observation: Some creators on the internet are so adored that their fans outrightly ask how they can donate. On the other hand, there are creators who shill their donation link without much success. Likewise with selling products: some creators sell their products like hotcakes while the rest end up becoming a starving artist.

Some chase money, some attract money. It’s an interesting phenomenon. What causes the attraction?

Optimism is revealed through action. Building something brand-new and risky reveals more optimism than merely saying “I am optimistic.” Pessimists, on the other hand, are complainers: “Why is this like this, why is this like that? Maybe I’m doomed for life, and there’s nothing I can do,” say the pessimists.

The act of building and creating can start small. If you notice a repetitive and dreadful task you keep doing on your computer, writing a script to automate it is an act of building; if you notice the eventual demise of this earth because of fossil fuel usage, building electric cars that delight customers is an act of building. Pessimists see problems as something to complain about, optimists see problems within their circle of competence as an opportunity.

There’s a beautiful river near the cottage where Odette lives. Each afternoon, after lunch, she sits by the river—on a big, flat stone that’s hidden beneath the shade of a tree. The arrangement of pebbles inside the river, the murkiness when it’s raining, the relaxing sounds it constantly produces, the chirping birds, the clean air, the flowers and the dead rats that often pass by, she loves everything.

“When I take my friends here, they seem to like the flowers and dislike the dead rats, but what of it?” Odette often asks herself. When a flower passes, she’s not excited; when a dead rat passes, she’s not bothered.

Years ago, when Odette first met the river, she would be like her friends—excited when there’s a flower, annoyed when there’s a dead rat. Emotions would stir within her: up, down, up, down; happy, unhappy; elated, bothered; excited, fearful; hopeful, annoyed. But as time went on, she slowly realized that those flowers and dead rats have nothing to do with her—the flowers have no intention to please anyone; the dead rats have no intention to annoy anyone. It just passes by; it appears, then it’s gone.

It’s the river being itself.

One, two, three, four, five. You just read a series of words from me. A hundred year ago, for me to share my words with you, I’d have to write a book, hire an editor, print the book, and worry about the logistics. But now, I’m doing it all in the comfort of my bedroom—no editor to talk with, no publisher to deal with. The cost of creating things and sharing it with the world is going down rapidly. In fact, the cost is so cheap that it all boils down to the creator’s living expenses. No permission required, no capital required.

Most see the internet as a tool for consumption; few realize how empowering the internet is.