The uselessness of goal setting
When we are kids, we see our fathers draw, we see our uncles play an instrument, or we get enamored with our cousin's library with its neatly organized shelves. We get curious, and we start mimicking our dad. We pull a little chair and sit down next to him, looking at the shapes taking form on a virgin white sheet. With time, we start picking up a pencil or a brush. At first, our movements are spasmodic and awkward. We heartily laugh at our ineptitude and at the confused shapes we manage to produce. We come back day after day, sitting next to our dad, who brought a forgotten, old wooden seat from the basement and set it next to him, so that we would have our little space and him, his peace. Ten year later, we still a teenager, but we have developed extraordinary skills that we start to get praised for. Our brain supports us in anything that is important to us. It assumes that if we religiously engage into an activity, it is essential to our survival. When we are kids, there is no