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Most of our bad days begin with bad fiction.
The most important task of a philosopher, and his first task, is to test out impressions and distinguish between them, and not to accept any impression unless it has been duly tested.
A friend is an hour late for dinner. We don't know why, but our brain has already written the novel. "He doesn't care. He's probably not even out the door yet. What a flake."
That's an impression. It feels like a fact. It isn't.
The Stoics were obsessed with this distinction. An impression is our initial interpretation of what's happening. Assent is the moment we decide to believe it. The gap between those two things is where most of our unnecessary suffering lives.
We can't always stop the first story from forming (our minds are quick and dramatic like that). But we can stop ourselves from believing it before we've checked.
Nine times out of ten, the story we've invented is worse than the reality. And even when the reality is bad, we're better off meeting it clearly than meeting the version we hallucinated over a late text message.
Today's suggestion: The next time an impression arrives hot, try asking: "Do I actually know this, or have I just decided it?" See what shifts.
Stay hungry. Stay wise. Eat brekkie.
