The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F_ck

The two men had been brought together under the most
curious of circumstances: two well-intentioned adventurers
chasing false visions of glory, like a real-life Japanese Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza, stuck together in the damp
recesses of a Philippine jungle, both imagining themselves
heroes, despite both being alone with nothing, doing
nothing. Onoda had already by then given up most of his life
to a phantom war. Suzuki would give his up too. Having
already found Hiroo Onoda and the panda bear, he would
die a few years later in the Himalayas, still in search of the
Abominable Snowman.
Humans often choose to dedicate large portions of their
lives to seemingly useless or destructive causes. On the
surface, these causes make no sense. It’s hard to imagine
how Onoda could have been happy on that island for those
thirty years—living off insects and rodents, sleeping in the
dirt, murdering civilians decade after decade. Or why Suzuki
trekked off to his own death, with no money, no
companions, and no purpose other than to chase an
imaginary Yeti.
Yet, later in his life, Onoda said he regretted nothing. He
claimed that he was proud of his choices and his time on
Lubang. He said that it had been an honor to devote a
sizable portion of his life in service to a nonexistent empire.
Suzuki, had he survived, likely would have said something
similar: that he was doing exactly what he was meant to do,
that he regretted nothing.
These men both chose how they wished to suffer. Hiroo
Onoda chose to suffer for loyalty to a dead empire. Suzuki
chose to suffer for adventure, no matter how ill-advised. To
both men, their suffering meant something; it fulfilled some
greater cause. And because it meant something, they were
able to endure it, or perhaps even enjoy it.
If suffering is inevitable, if our problems in life are
unavoidable, then the question we should be asking is not