Almost everyone asks this question at some point.
Some ask it out of frustration. Others ask it out of ambition.

But there is a hard truth many people miss:
Most people think about money the wrong way.

Some believe money comes from luck.
Some think it comes from shortcuts.
Others assume money only flows to people who are already rich.

Reality is different.

Money usually comes from solving problems for other people.

The more people you help, and the more valuable the solution you provide, the more value you create. And in many cases, that value eventually turns into money.

A farmer provides food.
A programmer builds software.
A teacher shares knowledge.
A businessperson connects people's needs with solutions.

Different roles, but the same principle:

They create value for others.

So the real question might not be
“How can I make money?”

A better question might be:

“What problem can I solve for people?”

Because money often flows toward those who are able to create meaningful value in the world.

“Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value.”
— Albert Einstein

We live in a time where reaching someone on the other side of the world takes only a second. One phone can hold hundreds of contacts, thousands of followers, and endless notifications. On the surface, it looks like humanity has never been this connected before.

But the real question is deeper.

When the screen goes dark at night and the noise fades away, do people actually feel less alone?

Today many people have hundreds of followers, yet very few people they can truly talk to. Conversations are slowly being replaced by reactions—likes, hearts, and emojis. Communication has become faster, but not necessarily deeper.

Technology gave us the tools to connect, but it didn’t guarantee meaningful relationships. In the past, people were connected to fewer individuals, but those connections were often stronger. Now we are linked to many, yet those ties can feel thin.

Perhaps the problem isn’t technology itself. The problem may be how we use it. We built tools to bring people closer, yet sometimes those same tools quietly push us further apart.

So the question remains:

Are we truly more connected than ever,
or are we just appearing connected while feeling more alone inside?

“Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.”
— May Sarton

There was a time when war meant fear.

Now it means notifications.

An explosion flashes across the screen.
Missiles. Retaliation. Counter-strike.
We watch. We share. We argue.
Then we scroll to the next video.

The war does not stop.
Only our attention does.

When the news comes every hour, suffering begins to feel ordinary.
Once, hearing that people had died would make us pause.
Now we measure tragedy in numbers.

10 people.
50 people.
500 people.

As the numbers rise, our emotions shrink.

Maybe we are not cruel.
Maybe we are tired.

There was a time when a distant war felt distant.
Now it enters our feed instantly.
But the problem is this:

Anything that lives in a feed doesn’t live for long.

Has our empathy become algorithm-driven?

The stories that trend feel more important.
The videos that go viral feel more real.

What happens to the rest of the pain?

We take sides.
We defend.
We debate.

But rarely do we stop and ask—
Who was the person on the other side?

Someone’s child.
Someone’s parent.
Someone’s unfinished dream.

War is political.
Death is always personal.

The most frightening part is not the explosions.

It’s the way we slowly get used to them.

Without hearing the blast,
we still become numb.

Maybe our humanity doesn’t disappear overnight.
Maybe it erodes quietly, one headline at a time.

The fire of war burns far away.
But the ash settles inside us.

So here is the question—

Are we watching war,
or are we slowly losing our ability to feel?

We read war through numbers—
how many killed, how much land taken, how many billions lost.

But war is not a game of statistics.
War is an equation of power, and in that calculation, human beings become expendable assets.

Headlines don’t say this—
the first casualty of war is truth.
Each side calls its bombs “defense” and the other side’s grief “propaganda.”
Truth becomes a luxury. In wartime, the state does not carry truth—it deploys it.

Headlines don’t say this—
people lose their moral compass slowly.
First, the enemy is a human being.
Then a “target.”
Then a “number.”

The person who once said, “Killing innocents is wrong,”
now says, “In war, some collateral damage is inevitable.”
Morality doesn’t die—
the state simply places it on leave.

Headlines don’t say this—
war divides empathy by nationality.
Our children are martyrs.
Theirs are collateral damage.
Tears speak the same language, but when the flag changes, so does their value.

Headlines don’t say this—
war teaches people to fear thinking.
Questioning becomes treason.
Doubt becomes betrayal.
The state demands loyalty, not intelligence—
because people who think are difficult to rule.

Headlines don’t say this—
war makes cruelty habitual.
At the first body, we tremble.
By the tenth, we scroll while sipping tea.
Cruelty is not born—it becomes normal through repetition.

Headlines don’t say this—
those who survive are never the same.
They return home, yes—
but trust does not return,
security does not return,
and most terrifying of all—
the ability to imagine a future does not return.

If Machiavelli were here, he might say—
war can be necessary for the state.
But if the state forgets that the true cost is paid by human beings,
it may survive—
yet not for its people,
but by using them.

After war, maps change.
But what changes quietly—
without a headline—
is the human being inside the human being.

A tourist went on a trip to Mexico. While wandering around, he arrived at the seashore and was delighted to watch the fishermen catching fish. He approached them and asked,

“How long does it take you to catch fish each day?”

“Not very long,” the fishermen replied quickly.

“Then why don’t you spend more time fishing and catch more fish?” the tourist asked.

“The fish we catch are enough for our needs,” the fishermen said as they pulled in their nets.

“Then what do you do with the rest of your time?” the tourist wanted to know.

The fishermen answered, “We sleep, play with our children, eat with our wives, spend time chatting with friends in the evening, have fun, laugh, sing loudly, and enjoy life.”

Interrupting them, the tourist said, “I have an MBA from Harvard University. I can help you with my business knowledge. You should spend more time fishing, sell the extra fish, and buy a bigger boat.”

“Then what?” the fishermen asked.

“With bigger boats you’ll catch more fish and earn more money. With that money you can buy several more boats. Eventually, you’ll build an entire fishing fleet. Then you won’t sell your fish to middlemen anymore—you’ll deal directly with fish processing factories. One day, you’ll even open your own fish processing factory. After becoming very wealthy, you’ll leave the village and move to a big city in Mexico, or even to Los Angeles or New York in the USA. From there, you’ll launch mega projects,” the tourist went on.

“How long will all this take?” the fishermen asked.

“It will take at least 20 to 25 years,” the tourist replied after a moment of thought.

“And then?” the fishermen asked curiously.

Smiling, the man said, “When your business grows even bigger, you’ll enter the stock market and earn millions of dollars.”

“Millions of dollars! Suppose we get that. But then what?” the fishermen asked in surprise.

Now slightly annoyed, the tourist replied, “Then you’ll retire. You’ll return to a quiet village, sleep by the sea, play with your children, eat with your wife, spend evenings chatting with friends, and enjoy life.”

The fishermen looked at him calmly and said,
“But that’s exactly what we are doing right now! So why should we suffer for 20–25 years?”

—Collected

"Not tired."

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