I once wrote this blog for Buddha Shares, a small corner of the internet where I tried to give form to my spiritual quest. But I grew faster than I could capture, like sand slipping through your fingers as you try to hold it. The project never quite took off. And yet—years later—I found myself returning to those old words. Like when you open a drawer and a scent takes you back to a forgotten summer.

My intention was never to convert anyone. It was about depth—about finding ways to weave your beliefs into your life, like wrapping rope around your wrist. Not doctrine, but life art. At the end of 2023, I stopped working on Buddha Shares to fully focus on my art, but its spirit lives on. In my studio. In my pen. In this moment between you and me.

Even as I write this, my eyes catch a billboard outside my studio window. A flash. An image. According to ScreenVoice, Europeans watched an average of 3 hours and 13 minutes of television per day in 2023. Some even claim it’s more than five hours. And that’s just the screen.

An older study by Siteefy estimated we’re exposed to up to 10,000 ads per day—whether we consciously register 100 of them or not, they buzz around us like mosquitoes in the summer dusk. The UN predicts that by 2050, about 68% of the world population will live in cities. More concrete. More screens. More cries for attention. And less… silence.

Did those numbers shock you? That’s before you’ve even checked your messages, email, or scrolled your social feed. Our minds are constantly engaged—and in the rare moments things go quiet, they grab for the nearest distraction. We even get bored watching a series we picked ourselves.

We are curious beings, designed to survive through exploration. Our ancestors hunted deer, planted crops, walked to distant lands because something called to them. Curiosity took us far. And now? Now it feeds an endless cycle of consumption. Because we’ve forgotten what silence is.

Personally, I believe it’s because we are wired to be curious. Where we once worked the land or followed animal tracks through the forest, now our eyes follow screens. It’s in us—the urge to look further. Why did humans appear in so many places millions of years ago? Because we wanted to go further. Because we had to.

We’ve become more efficient, better at focusing, at creating. We built brilliant theories, civilizations. But somewhere along the way, something happened. Our curiosity was hijacked—not by life’s questions, but by marketing that knows how to steer our hunger. Consumption became the new hunt. We became paid slaves in a system that produces goods we then have to buy ourselves.

Maybe that sounds harsh, but look around you. How often does something grab your attention simply because it cleverly triggers your brain? Think about:

• Will that new hair product really work against baldness? I really don’t want that.

• What did my brother post about his kids? Is his son walking already?

• Can I beat my high score and top Max Verstappen?

We all recognize them. The triggers. The hunger for the next little shot of dopamine. Companies know exactly how to spark them. And we? We respond faithfully, automatically, like it’s a matter of survival.

But what if… what if that nagging, craving feeling isn’t a trap, but a gate? A passage intentionally left closed by a world that sees our attention as currency. What if we embraced boredom—not as a lack—but as a beginning?

It’s a bit different for everyone. The foundation isn’t. We humans want to explore out of curiosity, and when we are rewarded for it, we feel satisfied. Our brains feel activated and rewarded. But because our brains prefer lazy over tired, they quickly demand more stimulation. Because it felt good.

What kind of stimulation that is, differs per person—but I think deep down we already know which ones truly matter.

For me, it’s YouTube and Netflix. I entertain myself by watching city builder gameplay, though I don’t play myself. I also love following the new space race and the latest developments in AI and robotics. And when I’m tired of that, I turn to Netflix and watch a series that’s really just a familiar story in a new jacket.

Is that all bad and a waste of time? I don’t think so. I learn a lot and it gives my brain a rest—it’s active all day long. Am I annoyed by the lack of variation and depth in those dry series? Absolutely. But for me it’s sometimes a last resort—or even a necessary one. Still, I’ve got it under control. I could fill my whole day watching YouTube, but I don’t. Why not? Because I also find satisfaction in doing nothing—or in working on just one thing I care about.

Many people fear their own thoughts when left alone with them. We see this in hard numbers—depression and anxiety affect a growing number of young people, but also many adults. I believe this is largely due to overstimulation: from billboards, traffic, the phone in your pocket. There are hardly any peaceful squares or parks left—at least, none without cafés or other stimuli. Even then, there’s often background noise: trash, people, clutter.

Cities are only getting busier, and those small green spaces are no longer enough. This leads to unpleasant mental states, including for our brains, which don’t know where to turn anymore.

Let’s take a step back and look at a few historical examples that show how peace of mind isn’t dangerous—but essential for finding good answers. Albert Einstein would retreat for hours, sometimes days, in his study. Uninterrupted, thinking through his theories. Leonardo da Vinci did something similar—he preferred forests and caves (as I later learned), where he would stay for months.

We once built spaces and streets to make our surroundings more beautiful. Now it’s row after row of bricks and concrete, parked cars, and speeding traffic, day and night. A house full of stuff that might make you wonder: Why did I even buy this?

Now that we agree on the problem, its short-term effects, and what history tells us, we can make a plan. Not to go back in time—but to make space for something better.

I suggest you clear out a room—or at least a 2x2 meter corner. Preferably one you can close off. A simple 1.20m room divider is enough. What matters is a blank canvas. This becomes your space to have a proper conversation with your mind.

As I’ve said before, meditation is a powerful tool—but many people don’t know how to approach it. In Islam, people often have a prayer room at home. In Buddhism, there’s often an altar. These traditions are valid. They are part of you and your thoughts.

Lay down a prayer rug, maybe something pointing toward Mecca, if that’s your path. Whatever faith you follow—it is welcome here, as you are. The only thing I ask is: leave the scriptures aside during this time. They can become distractions. There will be a better moment to engage with them deeply.

Make sure you’re comfortable. That could be a meditation cushion, a yoga mat, or even a simple office chair—as long as you can stay there for a while. And make sure you won’t be disturbed. Put your phone on airplane mode and leave it outside the space. Don’t worry—you won’t miss anything, and time won’t slip away. Trust your brain. It can handle it. We just have to re-teach it.

In my previous blog, I didn’t go into detail on how to do this. But now I can offer some guidance—thanks to something I realized I was already doing, but couldn’t yet name.

After reading Solve for Happy by Mo Gawdat (a brilliant book, highly recommended), something clicked. Mo talks about the voice in his head. And what struck me was how he asked that voice: But why? That was eye-opening. Because to make space, we need to tell our brain what to do.

Like Mo, I now ask my brain questions. Not just why, but also follow-up questions based on the answers I give myself. This has become even more relevant in the last six months—now that we also expect large language models to do the same.

So why don’t we do this with ourselves?

If your brain wants to check for new WhatsApp messages while you’re in your space, ask: Why wouldn’t that message still be there in 10 minutes?

Then it might say: What if someone posts something and deletes it before I see it?

You respond: What are you afraid of, really?

If you don’t know something existed, can you really miss it?

Your brain will come up with excuses and throw feelings at you. But you know: you are safe in your space. You are in charge now, learning how to think more clearly. Even just trying is already a new kind of education.

So what if… what if you really put this into practice? Is boredom still so bad? Maybe boredom is just a sign your brain isn’t in top shape. Just as your body can be unfit—so can your mind.

My advice back then was meditation. And it still is. But meditation doesn’t always look like the pictures in magazines. It doesn’t have to be a perfect cross-legged pose, eyes closed, hands on your knees. Meditation can be a question. A repetition. An inner ritual where you ask: Why? What for? How come? Until a thought arises worth exploring.

That thought will be different for you than for me. What touches you will shape your path. What touches me? That’s drawing.

Drawing brings me back to myself. When I don’t draw for too long, I get restless—even irritable. It’s so deeply rooted in me that I’m off-balance without it. But drawing wasn’t always something I dared to do in public. I used to need a closed room—somewhere no one was watching.

Now I sometimes sit in the park, with sound all around me, and I draw. And that’s okay. I’ve come a long way. I even draw live on YouTube now, every two weeks, for anyone who wants to watch. Because I believe that boredom, when you let it in, can be a gateway to something real. Something that strengthens you instead of distracting you.

Maybe this whole blog was a long detour to say something very simple:

Boredom is not the enemy. It’s a quiet ally.

It helps you slow down.

It helps you feel.

It helps you discover what you truly think.

You don’t have to meditate on a mountaintop or in a Zen monastery to come home to yourself.

Sometimes it’s enough to put your phone away, keep your eyes open, and simply do… nothing.

In that stillness, something begins to form.

Something that is entirely yours.

And if you dare to follow it—that thought, that feeling, that little nudge in your belly—

You’ll see: boredom is not emptiness.

It’s a beginning.

Thank you for reading and your time. Hope you got some value for your own life now.

Michael