Most people prepare for retirement the wrong way. They count the years left instead of the skills missing. They worry about rest, comfort, joints and cholesterol, but never about what they will actually do with their mind once the institutional road ends. The result is always the same: an excess of free time combined with a painful lack of purpose. I prefer another image. Not the retiree on a beach chair, not the retiree chasing hobbies like painkillers, but the 4×4 retiree. Not built for speed, built for terrain. A 4×4 is useless on a highway; any ordinary car can do that. Its value appears when the road disappears, and retirement is precisely that moment: when the road disappears. The 4×4 retiree prepares years in advance, not to escape work, but to change its nature. Eight years before retirement, while others scroll endlessly through social media, he learns—not to accumulate diplomas or titles, but to reduce future uselessness. Accounting, systems, automation, decision logic, ...
Money is a strange object. Everyone needs it, everyone talks about it, and almost everyone feels uneasy around it. We chase it, fear losing it, imagine what life would look like with a little more of it, and quietly blame ourselves when it slips through our fingers. In business especially, money stops being just a tool. It becomes a mirror, a judge, sometimes even a verdict on our own worth. Psychoanalysis offers a useful lens here. In Mourning and Melancholia, Sigmund Freud explains that melancholy appears when a person loses an object that carried libidinal investment. Not just something owned, but something psychically charged. The loss is not merely external; it wounds the self. The libido, no longer able to attach itself to the lost object, turns inward, eroding self-esteem and vitality. Melancholy, in this sense, is not sadness alone, but a quiet collapse of meaning. Later, Karl Abraham, in his work on Mania and Melancholia, extends this idea and explicitly names money as on...