I settle into the cushioned seat of my favorite Chinese buffet, my eyes darting between my usual order of General Tso’s Chicken and the fortune cookie prophecy enticingly laid on the table. Sliding the Styrofoam container aside, I grasp the sugary wafer. Clenching my fist, I shatter the wafer into thousands of miniature shards, revealing a small slip of paper—my fortune; my future.
The paper within the fortune cookie reads: “Great riches await you.”
It’s a simple message, one I’ve seen variations of countless times before. Yet, each time, I find myself searching for a deeper meaning—for some indication of what my future may hold.
As I hold the fortune in my hand, I start imagining what I would do with a million dollars. The thought excites me. I picture lavish vacations, a sprawling home, and maybe even a new car. The rush of possibilities feels intoxicating, even though I know I’m not taking the cookie’s message seriously. But then, I remember Epicurus.
If only he were here to tell me off—he taught me that the key to a good life doesn’t lie in accumulating wealth or chasing after excitement. For him, true pleasure isn’t about indulgence or thrill—it’s about cultivating a calm, peaceful state of mind, free from anxiety. That’s why he rejected the pursuit of possessions or grand experiences; they disrupt the simple, steady pleasures that lead to contentment.
Epicurus would tell me that it’s not the expensive dinners or luxury cars that matter. It’s the quiet moments: a meaningful conversation with friends, reading your favorite book, feeling a gentle breeze on a warm afternoon, or the sun peeking behind trees.
According to Epicurus, the root of much of our anxiety lies in our desire for things we do not have—materialistic means, fiscal success or virtually any outcome we hope to achieve, whether it be wearing expensive clothing or dining at Michelin-star restaurants. This hope, to Epicurus, pulls us away from the simple, quiet pleasures of life. Without these pleasures, we are bound to a perpetual state of dissatisfaction. To him, we must engage in this state to the greatest extent possible, and consider what it is we truly need—to question the subliminal or direct ambitions one may have in attaining the largest home, most luxurious car, or highest-ranking job position.
I find that this compulsion for grandiose success is particularly prevalent among my age group—but, who can blame them? As my age group approaches university, the desire to know that our futures will be secure only intensifies; that we may get accepted by the school of our dreams; that we will lead a fruitful life. This craving for knowledge of a future path seems to resurface or continue to exist even as many reach adulthood—burdened with financial costs and a mature lifestyle previously unknown to many of them.
There seems to be a positive correlation between responsibility and the desire to know what awaits. To overcome the anxiety born of increased responsibility, individuals may fixate on the future to pinpoint where they are going and how to overcome it.
Epicurus encourages us to shift our focus. As opposed to looking ahead and toward materialistic success, he suggests we turn our intention into joy in the simple pleasures of life—not bound to social or monetary value.
For me, this does not mean that we need to abandon a desire to succeed and plan for the future; rather, a balanced approach. Epicurus recognized how the desire to lead a successful life does not necessarily diminish one’s capacity for experiencing a well-lived life, but warns us of the potential for it to consume us eventually.
Sitting at the table, I stare at a second unopened prophecy. I stretch out my hand, grasping the sugary cookie wafer. With a firm clench, I reduce both the fortune cookie and its hidden message to fine dust. The dust settles onto the floor, yet I am unbothered. I’ve learned that binding myself to superficial desires and the constant planning to achieve them only heightens my anxiety about the future. But it is through consciousness of the present and finding joy in the little things that I can enjoy a General Tso’s Chicken, without needing to know what’s written inside the fortune cookie; in this, I find a new kind of peace—not rooted in my desires, but in the appreciation of what is.