Does the Endless Hunt for the New Kill the Taste for the Ordinary?

Epigraph

“The eye is not satisfied”.

Ecclesiastes 1:8 (World English Bible, public domain). This is an ancient voice from Near Eastern wisdom literature reflecting on human restlessness, not a clinical protocol line or a proven neurobiological law.

What This Article Is About

Meet hypothetical citizen Nikolai. Nikolai is a purely fictional character, a composite sketch of an urban dweller with an overflowing calendar. For the upcoming weekend, he has an immaculate itinerary ready: a brand-new exhibition, a freshly opened venue, unfamiliar music, and a route he has never walked before. Choose a familiar stroll? "Boring, I’ve already seen everything there." Yet the moment the agenda is executed and the boxes are checked, Nikolai is already nervously scrolling through listings for next weekend.

Calm down, armchair diagnosticians: we are not going to pin a "dopamine deficit," "consumer addiction," "hidden spiritual void," or "banal ingratitude for a comfortable life" on Nikolai. Reality is far more mundane. Perhaps the man was exhausted after the workweek and simply wanted a change. Perhaps the word "new" quietly stood in for the criterion "interesting." The exact cause remains undetermined.

The title of this article is an open question, not a proven causal chain. Swapping impressions like cheap socks does not automatically mean you have broken your capacity for joy. Nor is a dreary, overcast day obligated to morph into a masterpiece simply because you meditated on it with all your might. Novelty, interest, momentary pleasure, and underlying value are fundamentally different things. We will unpack them using everyday examples, free of moralizing lectures. The small trial offered below is not psychotherapy: it will not rebalance hormones or heal deep psychological wounds. We will merely take the crown off "novelty" as the sole savior and strip the label of "scrap material" from the old, without declaring them mortal enemies.

I. New Does Not Mean Interesting

Nikolai’s reasoning is crystal clear: "I am going to the exhibition because I haven’t been there yet." It sounds solid enough, but conveys precisely zero information about whether the art itself will actually engage him. One might look for a catch-up with friends, a shift of scene, aesthetic shock, or a bare pretext to avoid sitting at home. When the underlying desire remains unstated, a shiny "New!" sticker easily fills the void. In our scenario, the outcome splits: the event might genuinely click, or it might strictly fulfill the condition of being unfamiliar, leaving the verdict on actual interest entirely unresolved. That second finish hardly turns the day into a write-off. Novelty never promised you an earth-shattering revelation; it only promised you hadn’t laid eyes on it yet, so there is little point waving a warranty on an emotional thrill nobody ever underwrote.

With the familiar, things mirror each other. "I’ve been there before" is not equivalent to "I know everything about it." You might have sprinted down that street fixated on a burning deadline, listened to that track over the screech of subway wheels, or skimmed that book diagonally to scrape through an exam. Yet that hardly yields the sanctimonious takeaway that you are now duty-bound to pick at the very same book for years. If a thing is exhausted or genuinely unappealing, leave it alone. The distinction is straightforward: "I lived through this," "this doesn't fit my moment," and "there is objectively nothing here for me."

A quick mental test: strike the word "new" from the event announcement. What is left in the dry residue? Does the subject hook you? Is the company good? Is the transit convenient? Is the theme relevant? If everything crumbles to dust once the "novelty" badge is removed—fine, novelty was the sole product on sale. That is no crime; curiosity has a right to exist. But if the venture demands serious money or a squandered weekend, it helps to understand beforehand what you are paying for: genuine interest or a fleeting flash of unfamiliarity.

II. The Idea of Repetition and Repetition Itself

In 2019, researcher Ed O’Brien published a paper examining repeat experiences. According to his author abstract, read directly in the PubMed database (without reading the methods or full dataset), participants systematically underestimated the enjoyment of repeating familiar activities, assuming in advance that they would be far duller than they turned out to be in reality.

No dogma follows that repetition is invariably sweeter than novelty. That was the result within the studied conditions, and the following illustration is an editorial one: in imagination, a familiar stroll shrinks into a dull checklist item, "that same old square." Yet the actual walk consists of weather conditions, your mood, walking pace, conversation, and random small details. Memory of an event is a dry label, not the event itself.

At the same time, nobody is urging you to heroically march back into environments where things are objectively miserable. If a park is ankle-deep in mud, the café is atrocious, and the staff is blatantly rude, do not torture yourself for the sake of "openness to the ordinary." The point is different: when you cringe and mutter "the same old routine again," ask yourself honestly: are the specific conditions unacceptable, or is your rejection based on the assumption that past exposure entirely exhausted reality?

III. Habituation Has a Specific Object

In a 2013 study, Jordi Quoidbach and Elizabeth W. Dunn tested how a one-week abstinence from chocolate influenced subsequent enjoyment of it. According to the publisher abstract read (without access to the methodology or raw data sets), participants in the temporary abstinence group reported greater enjoyment of chocolate and a more positive mood during the second tasting session compared to the other two groups.

For heaven's sake, do not stretch this poor piece of chocolate across the entirety of human existence. The experiment does not prove that one must endure hunger, enforce Spartan asceticism, or strip away basic pleasures to "recover a zest for life." Habituation is always specific to an object. The sweeping proclamation "I'm sick of everything" does not, on its own, identify which experience was repeated or what actually changed.

Break down the feeling into its moving parts. An old song might no longer blow your mind, but it can still serve as a comfortable backdrop. A new hobby might feel stunning, yet you have no desire to keep practicing it. A favorite pastime brings joy, but right now you are dropping from sheer physical exhaustion. These are distinct states. If a familiar trail no longer induces ecstasy, it hasn't suddenly become useless. And if you are genuinely fed up with it, pick a new one, provided that reflects your own choice. The chocolate experiment applies exclusively to chocolate within the parameters of that single week; dragging it into personal relationships, sleep, therapy, or professional duties is strictly ill-advised.

IV. Repetition Need Not Be a Carbon Copy

Attempting to squeeze a carbon copy of your initial thrill out of a familiar task is an exercise in pure masochism. Sometimes the interest in repetition lives in subtle nuances. You might reread a novel and catch an overlooked argument, cook a familiar dish and finally master one specific step, or walk a well-worn route carrying a fresh question. These are possible scenarios, not guaranteed payoffs of paying attention. And if nothing new surfaces—so what, nobody died.

Chasing that elusive "very first impression" is inherently doomed: you cannot replay the element of surprise on command. Yet shock can be replaced by quiet mastery, depth, and comforting predictability. If you evaluate life exclusively by a meter of raw astonishment, the day after a premiere may feel insufficient.

Most importantly: the world is under no obligation to turn inside out to deliver your spiritual awakening. A mug is merely a vessel for tea, asphalt is asphalt, and a familiar playlist is background noise. Nobody is required to hunt for "the divine in every speck of dust." Demanding a daily peak experience from staring at a three-legged stool makes no more sense than running around like a scalded dog chasing new parties. Sometimes Nikolai takes the old route precisely because he wants zero discoveries. And that is perfectly fine.

V. Value and Pleasure Do Not Fully Overlap

Washing dishes, filing a report on schedule, cooking an uninspired pot of soup, following through on a promise—these actions rarely spark fireworks of ecstasy. Yet for an individual, they can carry profound value. If you weigh every move against a single metric of "how intensely does this thrill me," every piece of foundational routine gets tossed into the dumpster. The inherent value of an act and the immediate pleasure it yields are not synonymous.

Do not, however, twist "high value" into an excuse for miserable conditions or grueling burnout. Caring for family is important, but when energy runs dry, what may be needed is rest, outside support, or a redistribution of duties, rather than sanctimonious lectures on "the beauty of sacrifice." In our scenario, Nikolai enjoys a day off and the luxury of choice. A person without a day off might lack that privilege entirely. Do not confuse existential preferences with everyday survival.

And stop beating yourself up while scrolling through someone else’s flawless travel feeds. Feeling a momentary twinge of gloom over a stranger’s safari does not make you an envious creature with an abyss in your soul. What did you actually want? A real vacation? Autonomy? A warm sea breeze? A new geographical pin does not automatically bestow freedom. Call your deficits by their real names, and stop expecting novelty to resolve problems situated on an entirely different plane.

VI. The Question of Insatiability

The opening passage of the book of Ecclesiastes delivers the cold skepticism of the Preacher: the sun rises and sets, rivers flow into the sea, yet the human eye is not satisfied with seeing. This is classic ancient wisdom literature raising the problem of human insatiability, not a clinical paper on attention deficits. The text asks an uncomfortable question: what does "enough" look like to you personally?

If Nikolai expects a weekend to deliver the feeling that he has squeezed every drop out of existence without missing a beat, that expectation warrants scrutiny: other possibilities will always sit untouched just out of reach. By committing to one great route, you inevitably leave alternative routes outside your itinerary. That is a fundamental property of finite time, not a personal flaw. It is useful to examine the naive assumption that a weekend can cram the uncontainable into one weekend. Acknowledging the natural limits of a single day is not the same as resigning yourself to intolerable life conditions.

Nor do biblical verses justify throwing on sackcloth and perching on ash heaps with a sour scowl. And they certainly offer no license to lecture those around you: "You are never satisfied because humanity is inherently sinful and greedy!" Perhaps someone feels shortchanged not out of gluttonous greed, but because they are plainly starved of sleep, physical security, decent pay, or warm human contact. Do not patch real practical deficits with philosophical quotes.

VII. Simplicity and Its Limits

Henry David Thoreau, in selected passages of Walden (where he rails against frantic hustle, the cult of daily newspapers, and pointless rush), advocates paring away the superfluous. Let us proceed without fanatical zeal: this is the literary manifesto of a specific nineteenth-century eccentric, not a twenty-first-century public health manual. His adjacent suggestion about cutting the number of meals is excluded from this article’s practice. The point is not to retreat into the woods to gnaw on tree bark, but to practice basic hygiene regarding your own scheduling.

If Nikolai lined up an exhibition, a new route, a meetup with friends, and yet another venue, he is free to keep the full itinerary if it aligns with his current energy and desire. Or he might pick a single focal event. Choosing less is not inherently holier or spiritually richer. It is merely an alternative format: a single event affords more time for itself, while several provide a welcome variety. Neither option grants an indulgence for moral superiority.

And for goodness' sake, avoid romanticizing involuntary hardship. When someone cannot afford a bus ticket to the next town or a wholesome meal, advice to "learn to find joy in a drab concrete block and a cup of plain hot water" sounds insulting. We are discussing a voluntary trial for people who possess genuine options. Recognizing that your neighborhood courtyard is reasonably cozy makes sense. Conning yourself into believing you must stay trapped in that courtyard forever without dreaming of broader horizons is plain hypocrisy.

VIII. Novelty as a Threshold, Not Just an Effect

Novelty makes a splendid front entrance. A first lesson or an unfamiliar topic draws you in with the prospect of discovery. Yet subsequent mastery routinely demands repetitive steps: scales, drilling grammatical conjugations, correcting awkward mistakes. If your aim was simply a one-off afternoon diversion, wonderful: spin the potter’s wheel once and move on. But if the goal is acquiring a craft, distinguish the introductory glimpse from the ongoing progression: they carry very different expectations.

Repetition in learning does not have to feel like hard labor, but nobody promised an endless festival either. If a later lesson feels dull, separate the elements: does the instructor's method fall flat, is your brain exhausted, or did your anticipation of instant wonder clash with the actual task at hand? There is no reason to tolerate an abusive coach under the banner of "character building"; anyone is entitled to reconsider their participation. Boredom by itself does not decide whether an activity is suitable or whether its format is well organized.

Novelty and routine collaborate splendidly without waging holy war. A new question can uncover interest within the familiar, while familiar ground can anchor the approach to the new. This represents an available possibility, not an all-purpose equation or a rigid rule about the required percentage of novelty. Stop slapping labels across your forehead like "hardcore traditionalist" or "chronic thrill-seeker." These are merely tools suited for different challenges: at times you need to decompress on a familiar sofa, and at other times take an uncharted trail.

IX. A Small Trial Without Deprivation

To calibrate perception soberly, one might run a tiny domestic experiment. Emphasized in capital letters: strictly voluntary, safe, without cutting back on sleep, skimping on meals, dropping prescribed medications, cutting off human contact, or derailing essential obligations.

Select a basic, familiar action: reread a short article or take a walk down a street you know like the back of your hand.
Record your prediction: "I am convinced this will be mind-numbing boredom and I won't notice a single thing of interest."
Ask yourself: do you genuinely want to test this right now? If you are wiped out or rain is pouring in sheets, feel free to call it off even if a twinge of shame or doubt lingers—lacking absolute certainty does not forfeit your right to opt out, and this was never a test of spiritual fortitude anyway.
If you proceed, simply observe a single concrete detail: a specific line of reasoning in the text, a crack in the pavement, the tone of someone's voice. Do not strain to squeeze out tender tears or radiate "cosmic gratitude."
Upon returning, record the factual outcome: did anything mildly interesting catch your eye? Did everything stay entirely the same? Was it flat-out dull?

Boredom and yawning are completely legitimate findings. They do not brand you a callous bore with a broken psyche. The result may simply refine one specific prediction: the chosen activity failed to engage you right now. That does not demonstrate that all repetition is pointless or that your capacity for joy is impaired. You are neither trapped in a psychological laboratory with chocolate nor sitting in a clinic. If irritation or revulsion begins to surface during the exercise, drop it instantly. There are no mandatory quotas for "sticking it out to the end."

X. A Taste for the Ordinary Without the Obligation to Be Charmed

The conclusion of this story is pragmatic and grounded. You can comfortably decide: "Tonight I am staying home with a familiar comfort show because that is what I want." Or: "I am sick to death of these four walls; I am heading across the city." There is no need to take lifelong vows of allegiance to either stability or novelty. Nikolai can choose to keep one exhibition while dropping two side quests so he doesn't spend his day galloping against the clock. Next time, he might just as easily embark on a spontaneous road trip.

However, if a heavy, unrelenting grayness has taken root inside you, if nothing has engaged you for a sustained period and everyday functioning is noticeably affected, the issue should not be framed as a mere lack of novelty. What may be warranted is appropriate support and professional evaluation. This small trial neither explains such a state nor treats it. Seeking assistance is entirely valid before any certainty about the cause exists. Do not label ordinary exhaustion as a clinical condition, but do not try to bulldoze through profound distress through sheer willpower on a familiar walking path.

A healthy taste for the ordinary carries no obligation to weep tears of adoration over every sausage on your plate. It is merely the grounded ability to acknowledge: "There are no fireworks here, but this is dependable and valuable; here, an interesting detail unexpectedly appeared; and this over here is a dreary swamp whose conditions need to change." Leave novelty the right to invigorate you, and the ordinary the right to support you. Without frantic posturing, productivity cults, or compulsory enthusiasm.

What This Means in Practice

Select one safe, voluntary, and well-known activity: a brief text or a short familiar route without disrupting necessary nourishment, sleep, needed care, or essential obligations. No starvation diets, sleepless nights, skipping prescribed pills, or ditching your family. Articulate why you usually brush this activity aside in favor of something new. If the reason is murky, note that down as is. Avoid manufacturing deep existential trauma out of thin air. If you lack the energy today or the environment is uninviting, do nothing at all; you owe nobody a performance.

Before beginning, write down your skeptical forecast: "This will be dull; I know every single inch here." While engaged in it, do not perform for an internal audience: avoid hunting for profound cosmic meaning, do not meditate under duress, simply carry out the action. At the conclusion, cleanly untangle facts from emotional responses: what took place specifically, and what feelings did it prompt? If you disliked it, write that down. A negative finding carries the exact same legitimacy as a glowing review.

Weigh the resulting experience strictly against your initial written note. Did it turn out slightly more engaging than expected? Excellent; your internal prophet miscalculated in this single instance, but that hardly makes every repetition a universal panacea. Was it thoroughly uninspired? That outcome can refine your specific forecast; you can shelve the activity, alter a safe variable, pick a novel pursuit, or set the question aside. Do not project these conclusions onto your romantic relationships, physical health, or career—the scale of this experiment does not warrant it.

Conclude the exercise: leave the activity alone, tweak a safe parameter, or pivot toward something entirely fresh. If the exercise weighs heavily on your mood or turns into a hypocritical duty to stage-manage enlightened serenity, drop it immediately. There is no need to repeat it on a daily basis. If difficulty persists and noticeably impairs life, seek and discuss appropriate support separately from this guide. The ambition of this summary remains modest: clarify what you anticipated, see what actually happened, and determine your next move without becoming a prisoner to your own dogma.

Key Quotation

“Simplify, simplify.”

Henry David Thoreau, Walden; or, Life in the Woods, chapter "Where I Lived, and What I Lived For". In the neighboring text, the author's historical remark about eating only once a day is strictly conditional—framed only if necessary—and is neither dietary advice nor transferred into this exercise. The quote serves solely as a reminder of a sensible reduction in concurrent tasks.

Cross-Tradition Connections

Biblical Wisdom Literature: Ecclesiastes dissects the cyclical patterns of the world and human insatiability without romantic illusions. This is an existential reflection, not a synaptic wiring diagram or a psychiatric verdict.
Thoreau’s American Transcendentalism: A literary and philosophical critique of pointless bustle, the addiction to breaking news, and endless accumulation. It is neither a commercial franchise for abandoning civilization nor a dietary standard or an endorsement of involuntary hardship.
Experimental Psychology of Pleasure: Research by Quoidbach and Dunn (a strictly limited chocolate test) and O’Brien (forecasting errors regarding boredom from familiar experiences). Only author and publisher abstracts were considered, without generalizing findings across the entire structure of human emotion.
Editorial Synthesis: Novelty, interest, hedonic reward, and deep-seated value are distinct concepts. The familiar is under no obligation to stifle the new, and the new is fully capable of maturing into dependable routine. This article claims no singular consensus among sources concerning the root cause of insatiability.

Primary Sources

S1. Ecclesiastes 1:1–11, World English Bible. The opening passage, immediate context, and public domain notice were reviewed; the broader treatise was not analyzed in its entirety. Historical authorship is not established here; the text speaks through the voice of the Preacher. Official text.
S2. Henry David Thoreau. Walden, Where I Lived, and What I Lived For. Project Gutenberg 205. Only selected paragraphs of the named chapter concerning simplicity, hurry, and the news were examined; the complete volume was not examined for this article, and the print edition was not established. Text.
S3. Jordi Quoidbach, Elizabeth W. Dunn. Give It Up: A Strategy for Combating Hedonic Adaptation. Social Psychological and Personality Science, 2013, 4(5):563–568. DOI: 10.1177/1948550612473489. Only the publisher abstract was accessed; the complete article sits behind a paywall, and the methods and raw datasets were not examined. Publisher.
S4. Ed O’Brien. Enjoy it again: Repeat experiences are less repetitive than people think. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 2019, 116(4):519–540. DOI: 10.1037/pspa0000147. Consulted via the author abstract available directly in PubMed; full text was not retrieved. PubMed Record.

About the Authors

Andrey Zarinsh — author and founder of the United Wisdom project. He explores themes of internal transformation, the unity of traditions, intercultural dialogue, and contemporary spiritual discipline. Instagram: @andrey.zarinsh.

Maria Evilkut — co-author of United Wisdom. Alongside research, she aims to test these concepts in practice and observe how principles of unity and mutual understanding operate in real life across individuals and cultures. Instagram: @ilkutki.