Our lives are filled with gossip and trifles. We spend our days chasing the means of purpose—grades, recognition, status—and mistake them for purpose itself. If the bell rings, why should we run? Like Pavlov’s dog, we respond automatically, moved by habit rather than understanding. We live in obedience to patterns we no longer question, and soon, even the smallest noise becomes an order.
Thoreau once asked the same question. He urged us to hear the bell not as a command, but as music—to listen without fear, to reclaim the sound for ourselves. Meaning is not inherent in the bell; it is constructed by the listener. When we realize this, we begin to see how every external rule can be reinterpreted, how the world itself can be rewritten by the consciousness that perceives it.
Some are fortunate: they live warm, effortless lives without ever needing to ask these questions. Their meaning comes naturally, as if inherited. Most of us are not so lucky. We must build our meaning from fragments, through reflection and trial, to live a life unchained. And that work never ends—it is the very condition of freedom.
When comfort has not yet arrived, we should not despair. The absence of comfort is not emptiness but potential. The silence before the bell rings can be the most creative moment of all. Something bright is always ready to open—if only we remain willing to listen, to pause before we run.