The Fish and the Dog

The idea of sacrifice as a principle and a way of being is, at first glance, unacceptable to most people for a very simple reason: their lives are too easy. The more a person encounters serious hardship, the more self-evident the idea of sacrifice becomes - not merely as a specific, episodic act, but as a mode of living itself. At the same time, one should not and cannot blame people for this, because today the chain of reasoning from everyday routine to existential thought is longer than it ever was even for Kierkegaard, although he too required years of momentum before reaching it. This story speaks of two very simple phenomena through symbols that stay with you.

The Logic of Internal Transactions

The simplest way to understand this situation is to view it through the lens of an internal logic of exchange. Every person possesses a certain amount of life with which they operate - life that can, conditionally, be treated as a commodity exchanged for something else. Heidegger’s way of articulating the impossibility of fully grasping Dasein provides an excellent starting point for understanding the finitude of life. Crucially, even the total amount of this “commodity” available to us is never known.

Even with the best intentions, it is impossible to calculate any definite length of life, because uncertainty about its duration is built into the very experience of living itself. Thus, one can proceed axiomatically from the fact that a human being does not know how long they will live. All “exchange transactions” of life-time for something else therefore operate with a value that is arithmetically at least equal to the number of days already lived, while the remaining portion may range from a few moments to decades.

When a person truly understands this, fear of death emerges - a phenomenon for which most of us are poorly prepared. This, in turn, activates one of three rationalization logics: life is planned in sincere belief in its continuation at least until a relatively advanced age, accompanied by a rather naïve division of life into stages; acceptance of the indeterminacy of life’s duration and the decision to use the remaining time for maximum pleasure;
acceptance of the indeterminacy of life’s duration and the decision to sacrifice the remaining life in pursuit of meaning - a way of living in which each day acquires immeasurable weight.

As we will soon see, the first approach inevitably collapses into one of the latter two. Regardless of what a person claims verbally, their actual life logic is always reducible to one of two forms: either a hedonistic pursuit of personal happiness or self-sacrifice in the service of meaning - especially when examined through their concrete actions.

For this reason, as many psychologists within the analytical tradition have observed, analyzing the logic of behavior is the most reliable way to understand a person’s value structure, rather than trusting their words.

Working for Money

Most people go to work or engage in some form of labor. In essence, this is a very simple and logical exchange in which life - more precisely, time - is traded for money. One effectively sells their time, and most often, as many have noted, for small change.

I recall a conversation from years ago with one of Estonia’s finest writers who, quite sincerely, remarked when the topic of salaried work came up: “I can’t go to work - I have to earn money.” We both laughed, not condescendingly but genuinely, because the observation came from the heart and was accurate.

This does not mean, however, that going to work is inherently wrong or bad. The internal logic of exchange is essentially the same in both salaried employment and entrepreneurship: selling time for money. This inevitably leads any person willing to think a bit more boldly to a simple thought experiment: what would happen if it were possible to receive, immediately and in full, the total compensation for all remaining working years?

If, in such a case, a person were to quit their job overnight - as many lottery winners do - the bleakness of this internal transactionality would be revealed, along with its frequent submission to external compulsion. At its core, this points to a deficiency in how the “sale” of life is conceptualized, but it is just as often symptomatic on another level: a person gives up their time because they lack a meaningful alternative to their current work. Life proceeds in silent routine, as if waiting for some impulse of change, yet the only categorical change that inevitably arrives is a direct or indirect encounter with death.

If this logic is taken further, it leads rather quickly to structured internal value hierarchies. Money is rarely an end value in itself; it is an instrumental means toward something else. In such choices, a person’s values become clearly legible. Money earned through work is an ideal instrumental indicator of a person’s values, because regardless of how they use it, it reveals their structured internal value hierarchy - whether they wish it to or not.

Money as an Instrumental Indicator

It is precisely the analysis of how money is used - or also how it is rigidly preserved and left unused (as one mode of use) - that inevitably leads us to a clear understanding of a person’s internal value hierarchy, whether they wish it or not. Very often, attitudes toward this issue are distorted, and the use of money is viewed purely through a utilitarian lens: whether expenditures increase or decrease a person’s total assets, whether investments are “rationally reasonable” or not.

In most cases, such analysis already rests on a fundamentally flawed premise. When it comes to the use of money, it is neither sensible nor logical to analyze its formal aspects, but rather its substantive direction: does a person use money primarily to increase their own well-being, or do they sacrifice it for something - or someone - who stands above them in their value hierarchy?

In the first case, when a person uses money mainly - and ultimately often exclusively - for their own interests, the situation becomes more deviant or even pathological the more efficiently they do so. This was aptly described years ago by the late comedian Greg Giraldo when commenting on the absurdity of investments prior to the financial crisis. He arrived at a banal yet unfortunately true conclusion: “The fact that he invested his money in alcohol, drugs, and prostitutes turned out not to be such a bad idea,” because after the financial crisis he had just as little money left as those who had placed all their assets into stocks or “reasonable” investments.

Naturally, this is an exaggerated and radically simplified example, but the underlying logic is strong. The “wisdom” of investing is, in its essence, just as instrumental as money itself: it reveals a person’s technical competence, but the broader logic of action always exposes their value hierarchy.

If, by contrast, we consider a person for whom the use of money - both formally and substantively - is subordinated to higher values, such as family, marriage, or children, they generally show little inclination toward hedonistic choices. Work and the earning of money become a way of “spending oneself,” as one industrious and frugally living millionaire once sincerely told me, for the benefit of others.

Such people usually arrive at this logic before earning substantial sums, and the manner in which money flows in their lives remains the same - only the scale changes. Often they have precisely as much personal money as is strictly necessary, sometimes even less, and each month begins, from a personal perspective, quite literally from “zero,” because everything has already been given away.

This may certainly appear to be a radical idea, yet I have spoken with many - not just one or two, but genuinely many - such individuals, and their logic appears strikingly consistent: their personal well-being is not the ideal; it exists in service of the ideal.

Arithmetic Reduction of Intermediate Layers

We arrive at particularly interesting conclusions when we examine the entire value logic through a retrospective analysis of actions and eliminate all intermediate layers between life as a commodity and lifestyle. Absolutely and without exception, a person’s value hierarchy and their logic of “selling their lifetime” become visible - although people themselves rarely verbalize this honestly.

Living for Oneself

Let us assume, for example, a single man engaged in entrepreneurship who spends a considerable portion of his time relaxing on exotic foreign trips and much of the remaining time in the company of one or several lovers decades younger than himself - what in contemporary terms would be called a sugar babe. In exchange for covering expenses, he receives sex and a travel companion, yet never desires a serious relationship.

No matter how such a person attempts to conceptualize his value logic, it is unambiguously and without exception derivable from his actual behavior: this is a deeply self-centered mode of action. He knows that such a lifestyle excludes the possibility of serving as a role model for his children in valuing family and marriage as ideals; he knows that an increasing number of people working under his authority will become aware of his sugar daddy relationships and that this will entail a loss of authority even in professional contexts. He also knows that transactional relationships with often pathologically deviant age differences cause depression and deep inner suffering for sugar babes and their children. And yet he does it anyway.

No discourse on values, balance, or “energetic predestination” outweighs the factual weight of actions. If we now strip this logic of all intermediate layers—financial propriety, systematic work habits, possible abstinence, self-education, and so forth - we arrive at a clear and singular relation: the giving away of life on one side, and in return personal pleasures and a lifestyle of immediate gratification. More briefly: living one’s life for oneself.

“Is this inherently wrong?” one might immediately ask. The answer is: certainly not- especially if the person openly acknowledges it and states something along the lines of: “I’m already quite old, I want to enjoy life, I am not interested in being a substantive role model for children, in the ideals of family and marriage, or in professional authority. I am a proud and straightforward sugar daddy - do the same if you so desire.”

Unfortunately, people usually speak very differently and tend instead toward fluid self-justifications, typically drawing on a blend of humanistic Eastern philosophies and Western mysticism - adapted precisely to legitimize such a lifestyle. The problem with this approach to life is therefore twofold: the absence of meaning and the prioritization of personal hedonism, coupled with the masking of this reality behind some form of humanistic spirituality.

Living for Others

The diametrical opposite of this approach is a person who, regardless of any economic pressure to work, does so out of an internal sense of responsibility and to an extent that exceeds any mandatory minimum. The lifestyle of such individuals usually consists of a continual expenditure of themselves for the benefit of others, an organization, or even multiple structures; of solving increasingly complex problems; and of perceiving everyday life not merely through values, but through ultimate values - through ideals.

These people always do more than is required of them. In contrast to the previously described sugar daddy philosophy of life, they are not concerned with whether they will manage to accumulate enough pleasures in their remaining years, but with whether a sufficiently large number of meaningful goals can be achieved. Since the length of life is unknown, prolonged rest is not possible - I know several such people who quite clearly rest too little.

Yet it is precisely everyday meaning that compensates for exhaustion and ultimately even precludes burnout, although burnout does occur - especially when, during the most difficult periods, significant additional energy has been mobilized through internal resources. Often, the optimal temporal unit for summarizing such a life is a single day. Just as at the end of each day, so too at the end of life, they acknowledge something very simple: this expenditure of oneself was extremely difficult, and yet it was worth it. These people are remembered, and they change many lives.

They are often accused, particularly as long-term leaders of companies or organizations, of “clinging to power,” which is usually laughable. In practice, something far more inwardly moving has repeatedly emerged: they would gladly hand over their “power” to someone else, but most of those who desire it most do not fully grasp the responsibility it entails and would use it - intentionally or unintentionally - in a manner corrupted by the allure of power.

At this point one may ask: is such a way of living - expending oneself and seeing the world through value structures - not an absurd waste of time? Is it not a foolish way to “waste” one’s remaining life? And the honest answer is: from the narrow standpoint of personal happiness - undoubtedly. These people are not happier in the conventional sense, because the transaction structure of their “sale of life” obeys a different logic: giving away the remaining life at the best possible exchange rate - through maximal action - in the service of meaning and ideals.

The greatest substantive difference between the first and second categories with regard to their attitude toward work and earning money lies in inverted instrumentality. In the second approach, the willingness to work does not depend on money; responsibility for getting things done simply manifests in the form of work, and the person would engage in it almost regardless of whether they were paid or not. Since advancing meaningful phenomena almost always produces real added value, earning money often becomes an inevitable byproduct. Yet it is not primary: the minimally optimal amount of money is instrumental only insofar as it enables the continuation of work on a broader scale.

The Fish – A Day as the Microcosm of an Entire Life

Most people do not perceive how their value hierarchy - whether consciously reflected upon or not - shapes everyday life. Yet very often it is precisely a person’s typical day that constitutes the temporal unit representing the microcosm of their entire life.

The biological idea of an organism as an ultra-compact, miniature expression of its environment and its history is nothing new. Take a fish, for example. From a single fish - considered in isolation - it is possible to reconstruct a significant portion of the planet’s biological history. This may sound exaggerated, but only if we confine ourselves too narrowly to a reductively rational interpretation. Scales, eyes, gills, fins, hydrodynamics, tail, and internal organs together form a whole from which far-reaching conclusions can be drawn about the growth environment, position in the food chain, relationships with other species, and - only a few conceptual steps further - the evolutionary history of the aquatic environment itself. In essence, all of this is contained within a single fish.

Alfred North Whitehead, Richard Dawkins, and Jesus Christ - the day as a fish

If we now examine a human day, it is essentially analogous to the fish: a day is a microcosm of a person’s present life and, to a large extent, of their past as well. It contains the consequences of formed choices and, as a unit of time, far more than people are usually willing to acknowledge.

Within a Whiteheadian framework, a day is not merely a rigidly bounded temporal segment, but a sequence of situations and moments, each of which condenses physical, moral, and historically inherited inputs from previous moments. When I first read Process and Reality, it became definitively clear to me that within the limits of existing scientific epistemology, Whitehead cannot be “further from scientific truth” than any other contemporary metaphysical alternative. In fact, he remains remarkably closer to it.

When this logic is combined with Dawkins - who likewise sees, at the level of the organism, the sedimentation of environment and history - we arrive at a clear ontological conclusion: a day is the microcosm of an entire human life in the same way that a fish is the microcosm of its environment and its evolutionary background.

One may, of course, object that not all days are alike and that life is inherently unpredictable; that equating “days” is merely an overgeneralization of dull everyday routine. Yet there is nothing truly dull about “everyday life,” and anyone who objects in this way likely understands very well what is meant here. A typical day is one that contains activities and routines arising from prior choices in their simplest - and by no means negative - sense. There are very few things a person considers important that they do not engage with daily.

The idea of a single day as a sufficient and morally legitimate unit of time within which one must live responsibly - without neurotic anxiety about the future—is articulated, in essence, by Jesus Christ in the Sermon on the Mount:

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
(Matthew 6:34)

At a superficial and naïve reading, this could be interpreted as permission to abandon concern for the future - but such an interpretation is mistaken. Jesus does not abolish responsibility for the future (quite the opposite); rather, he neutralizes future anxiety by shifting emphasis to responsibility within the bounds of a single day. If a person fulfills their duties within each day, assumes responsibility, and is able to confront the suffering and challenges of one concrete, singular day, then - precisely through this - the substantive need to worry about the future can dissolve.

In such a case, the future forms itself: “tomorrow will worry about itself,” because it is the inevitable outcome of daily actions.

This approach is supported, directly or indirectly, by several existentialists and Stoics. It is encountered far less frequently, however, in humanistic frameworks, where - at least in my assessment - one often slips into naïve simplifications.

The Structure of the Day as a Moral Consequence, Not Pragmatic “Time Management”

Much is said about the importance of time management, and in many respects I myself hold a deep belief in productivity. Yet throughout trainings and consulting projects, I have repeatedly encountered situations where planning itself is already “pre-planned” at a meta-level - through a person’s moral life plan, that is, through their internal value hierarchies.

Consider prisoners, for example. A prisoner may do their utmost to plan their day as efficiently as possible: allocating time for reflection (assuming they believe themselves capable of governing their thoughts at that level), healthy eating, structured physical activity, and so on. Yet, in substance, their moral structure has already predetermined their day, and this does not change in any meaningful way until the internal value hierarchy itself changes.

The example of prisoners often appears extreme, but it is only partially so. In reality, a very similar situation may apply, for instance, to a middle-aged woman whose daily rhythm is characterized, in a broader sense, by pain and chaos. If a day begins without any substantive desire to get out of bed - because there is no meaning worth striving for - this is not a problem that can be solved through external circumstances or pragmatic “better planning.” In most cases, it is a moral problem that directly concerns value hierarchies.

For example, if such a woman does not know what she is doing professionally now or in the future because she failed, in earlier days, to take responsibility for personal development and learning; if she experiences pain and guilt over alienation from her children, whose presence in her life she herself relinquished through prior life choices; if no promising perspective appears on the horizon - then it is hardly surprising that she falls into patterns of aggressive dependencies (ranging from alcohol and vaping to narcotics) and transactional relationships, where attention, sexual intimacy, or companionship is offered to sugar daddies in exchange for car lease payments, living expenses, or other lifestyle benefits.

The structure of such a day - a bleak breakfast stretching toward noon with an unemployed friend, a half-hearted attempt to find a “real” well-paying job, hours of scrolling through social media feeds (which largely amplify the ideas of fourth-wave feminism), an evening “meeting to satisfy a sugar daddy” because the sponsor “happened to have time” - is not accidental. The day has been structured through prior moral choices. The consequence is deepening inner loneliness.

Here it is crucial to understand: a moral problem cannot be solved through pragmatic time planning, just as a severe life crisis cannot be resolved merely through “thinking differently.” (Although many derive a certain perverse satisfaction from offering such advice with performative concern - “just think positively, others have it worse.”)

Moral shifts occur almost always - indeed, without exception - through deep internal rupture. This was also the case with Jacob, who fled his father’s household after deceiving both his father and his brother. His transformation did not begin with a new plan or a better schedule, but with an internal realization that “this cannot go on.” What followed was a radical reordering of values and alignment with something vertically meaningful. For Jacob, this meant a journey of roughly twenty years, beginning with the acknowledgment of moral failure, deep remorse, and repentance.

At this point, what precisely constitutes that vertical point of orientation is not decisive. Without such an orientation, moral change is usually impossible. I have received repeated criticism for this claim, yet I maintain it: the majority of humanistic approaches tend to foster or substitute dependencies rather than help people break free from them sustainably. By contrast, the radical nature of religion - when a person truly aligns with it internally - has, in many cases, proven remarkably effective.

Returning to the logic of giving and self-sacrifice: the possibilities that exist in a given day are the result of moral choices in exactly the same way as the chaos of the middle-aged sugar babe’s day. Amplifying the positive - both in one’s own life and in the lives of others - requires personal development, diligence, and learning. If a person has not placed these into earlier days, it is inhumane to expect immediate change. The necessary potential simply does not exist.

So what can happen over time? Change can begin. The journey toward a more capable and responsible version of oneself is possible. Yet the transition from a happiness-centered life toward a life structured around meaningful sacrifice usually takes time - unfortunately, often on the same scale as it did for Jacob.

The Dog Within Yourself

The Dog as Healthy and Strong Animality

David Goggins - who practices a deliberate and deeply non-positive life philosophy - has described the idea of “the dog inside”: a part of the personality that acts daily regardless of feelings, emotional states, or how “the energies happen to be flowing.” It is a form of obligation that can feel almost numb - a force that gets things done without letting go, detaching itself from moods of any kind.

In a certain sense, it is raw animal power that actualizes prior moral decisions, carrying action forward from day to day. In religious terms, it is the victory of the self-sacrificial part of the personality over the side that seeks happiness and pleasure. Goggins’s dog resembles a bloodhound - or, at its best, a German Shepherd - a force to be reckoned with, because it is potentially life-threatening.

What kind of “dog” lives inside a person becomes visible in their actions, their thinking, and their courage in confronting problems. When the dog is strong and healthy, there is - positively speaking - enough animal energy in the person, most often expressed as independent effort and consistent personal development under strick dicipline.

The Fat and Sluggish Dog

For me, Goggins’s concept of the dog has served as a counterbalance to contemporary motivation culture - a breath of fresh air in a context where overweight and lethargic men visit gyms mainly for Sunday social appearances and talk there about “the right life choices.” Often, the dog inside them has been allowed to grow fat. Their talk then resembles the snoring of an old, overfed bulldog. Many real moral dangers are absent from their lives: parallel relationships, new professional choices, serious career changes. Not because they consciously renounce these possibilities, but because the possibilities simply do not exist.

As a result, talking about such things - and the daily rhetoric of “moral choices” - becomes a mere substitute for the actual and substantial realization of inner potential. In other words, they imitate Goggins’s dog, but are in fact already half-asleep.

Likewise, the “daily nap of the fat dog” is not a moral choice or achievement, but merely the consequence of sinking into routine. One cannot credibly say, “Despite everything, I choose to stay in this job and with this woman,” if real alternatives do not exist. Such “choices” are morally negligible.

Life proceeds calmly toward death, and one quietly enjoys one’s transformation into a fragment of existential anonymity- Martin Heidegger’s das Man - the “faceless others” who live as “one lives,” or in contemporary terms: as an NPC, a background character.

The Timid Lapdog

A pathological version of Goggins’s dog is false masculinity - or the substantive absence of masculinity - which is characteristic of many contemporary men. It is a seemingly structured life, but only at the most superficial level: within boundaries that do not require serious moral responsibility. Outward confidence and order mask an inner absence of readiness for sacrifice.

Masculine being manifests in close relationships and within the family primarily in three ways: caring for others, both in the short and long term; protecting one’s loved ones, morally and physically; self-sacrifice for the benefit of society and one’s family.

The timid lapdog within a person is often a pathologically castrated remnant of inner animality - “being strong” only in limited, inconsequential domains. It is characteristic both of soy boys and of sugar-daddy types - both fleeing from problems. It resembles a distorted reminder of what should and could be: formally present, but in reality ridiculous - barking from a distance and retreating whenever a situation demands intervention, responsibility, or courage. In practice, this appears as meticulous planning of substitute activities, calculating the efficiency of solar panels on the house, or searching for new organic food producers while, at the same time, one’s wife - at the final stage of a failed marriage - is packing her belongings to leave with the children. The man has failed to grasp the moral weight of sacrifice and to engage with substantive questions, instead looking past them with pathological blindness.

Seeing Life and Sacrifice Through Symbols

In the end, two images suffice: the fish and the dog. So simple that even my youngest child can understand them.

The fish is a micro-version of oceans, waters, and the entire planet within a single organism. This means that a person’s day is the embodiment of their life and their prior moral choices.

For this reason, the fish—also at the level of Biblical and early Christian symbolism - embodies Jesus Christ himself. The Greek acronym ΙΧΘΥΣ (Ichthys) derives from Iēsous Christos Theou Hyios Sōtēr (“Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior”). This is precisely why Christ is so closely symbolized by the fish: it contains the logic of baptism and transformation.

What a person’s day looks like is not accidental, but a logical necessity arising from the values by which they have lived. And just as persecuted Christians recognized one another in the first centuries through a fish drawn in the sand, so - according to Alfred North Whitehead’s logic - each of our days contains an initial aim, an original orientation that can be understood as the will of God. Our moral decision is whether to follow it or not.

The dog within a person is their capacity to do, each day, what is morally right and oriented toward higher values and self-sacrifice. It is a categorical and unconditional refusal to seek excuses. Total responsibility for oneself. Training alone. Making effort and self-expenditure a way of life. Preventing one’s inner “animality” and passion from degenerating into uncontrolled indulgence, and instead channeling them into something good and simple - such as playing ball with one’s children in the yard. But even that is possible only if one has children, the will to stand up for them and fight for them, values - and balls.