Free will

I went for a ride on my bicycle the other day. As I pedaled along a quiet road, I noticed another cyclist ahead of me. He was moving very slowly, almost dragging his bicycle. From his appearance, it was clear he was commuting to work.

Meanwhile, I was immersed in the sheer pleasure of the ride—feeling the air against my face, the perfect temperature, the rhythmic movement of the pedals, the gentle hum of the wheels rolling against the tarmac, the chain gliding over the cogs. The sight of trees and flowers passing by made everything feel alive. In that moment, I wondered—how could anyone not enjoy cycling?

Yet, the man ahead of me had a different experience. His face looked exhausted, almost lifeless, as if he had no zeal left to push the pedals.

That contrast made me reflect.

Cycling, for me, was a want—I chose to ride, and that choice made all the difference. The joy I felt wasn’t about the bicycle itself or the scenery; it was simply the freedom of doing something I genuinely wanted in that moment.

For him, cycling was just a necessity—something he had to do to reach work, part of a daily routine dictated by responsibility rather than desire.

Ultimately, we were having a similar, if not identical, physical experience. The road, the ride, the bicycle—none of it was different. Yet, our interpretations couldn’t have been more opposite. For me, it was pleasure; for him, it was a burden.

And then it struck me—it isn’t the experience itself that brings joy or suffering, but our sense of free will.

A prison can feel like a palace if one enters it willingly. And a palace can feel like a prison if one is trapped inside against their will.