This morning, while drinking my coffee, I put on Jack Van Cleaf’s new song (featuring Zach Bryan), “Rattlesnake”—I hadn’t heard it before and it’s a beautiful song. One line especially stuck with me: “Drunk on freedom, stuck on choice.”
The previous night I watched Wim Wenders’ contemplative film, Perfect Days; it invites you into the life of Hirayama, a Japanese toilet cleaner. Hirayama lives a life of extreme routine. His structured, predictable days at first seem limited. Yet, within these self-imposed constraints, he finds a profound sense of peace and freedom even. He is, in a word, happy, or at least content. He is anything but drunk on choice.
The film reminded me of a saying, “Peace is happiness at rest, and happiness is peace in motion,” which I first read in The Almanac of Naval Ravikant.
Hirayama’s life explores the fine line between contentment and compromise. He has accepted a life of routine, finding happiness within its confines. However, is this acceptance a conscious decision to find peace within the overwhelm of countless possibilities? Or is it acquiescence, a quiet surrender to a limited existence?
A dilemma I keep pondering: the human spirit’s inherent restlessness compels it to question the uncontrollable, despite the peace found in focusing on what we can control. Where is the balance between accepting what is and exploring what can, or should, be?
Modern life bears the burden of limitless options. We crave freedom, and it has never been greater. Yet the sheer volume of choice available to us can be paralyzing. In The Paradox of Choice, Barry Schwartz discusses how this abundance of choices increases the likelihood of regret.
In contrast to the paradox of choice, there is Hirayama’s life. By limiting his options, he escapes the constant pressure to optimize or challenge the constraints of his life. He’s found peace in motion—a happiness born of purposeful action within a defined space, yet also, perhaps, tinged with a sense of something lost.
The fascinating aspect of Perfect Days is its suggestion of Hirayama’s past regrets. Later stages of the movie hint at pain from his past. And it leaves you wondering how much of Hirayama’s current life is avoiding the vulnerability and potential pain that comes with a deeper emotional connection. Is Hirayama’s routine an attempt to avoid the hurt he once experienced? Or is it a hard-won acceptance of life’s inherent limitations? A conscious choice to find joy and beauty in the present moment?
Truth is always more complex. Self-preservation or acceptance is a false dichotomy. One lives through negotiation with the soul between contentment and yearning. Peace in the present versus striving for an unknown future. One with more potential for reward, but also failure, pain, or loss. The dance between what is and what could be.