brought up by the ninja turtle ronin of old

We live in a time where the concepts of ownership and land are woven so tightly into the fabric of our society that they seem unshakable. But is that really how it has to be? I’ve been thinking about this deeply—more than thinking, really. I’ve been grappling with it, turning it over in my mind the way an ancient ronin would toy with a blade, always seeking to refine his technique, even when he believes it to be perfect.

The notion of land ownership feels increasingly absurd the longer you hold it up to the light. We didn’t invent land, and yet we’ve convinced ourselves that it’s something that can be owned, parceled out, bought, and sold. It’s as if we’ve allowed our collective imagination to be shackled by the idea that everything must have a price tag. The land has no inherent value beyond what we’ve assigned to it—so why do we continue to cling to these outdated notions of ownership?

We’re told that the land is ours to do with as we please, yet the land was here long before us and will be here long after we’re gone. So, what do we really own? Scottish Enlightenment thinkers like Adam Smith and David Hume tried to grapple with these questions in their own time. They understood that property is more about social contracts than divine rights. Smith, for instance, saw land ownership not as an inherent right but as something that could be justified only when it served the common good. He argued for taxation as a reflection of the value land provides to society, a notion that feels revolutionary even today.

But let’s take a step further than that—why stop at reforming land ownership when we can completely rethink it? Perhaps the land itself is a shared resource, something to be nurtured and managed collectively rather than owned. We don’t own the air we breathe, after all. We share it. Why should land be any different?

Philosophers like Rousseau would roll their eyes at the idea of communal land, seeing it as an attack on personal freedom. But is it truly freedom to be chained to a system that forces us to see every piece of ground as something that can be possessed? Rousseau’s idealism, which painted humans as noble savages corrupted by society, never accounted for the fact that sometimes, it’s the systems we cling to that hold us back from greater things.

I’m not advocating for some Marxist dream of eliminating private property—that’s a fool’s errand, a utopia that dissolves in practice. What I’m talking about is something different, something closer to the ideas that came out of the Scottish Enlightenment—a focus on land as a living thing, tied to the well-being of all, not just those who hold the deeds. Henry George, the 19th-century economist who built on these ideas, argued that the value of land is created by society itself. Why, then, should a select few reap the rewards while the rest are left to scrape by?

This is where I see the future. Not in the restoration of decaying cities like Detroit—though Detroit serves as a poignant reminder of what happens when corruption festers and the land is abused—but in the creation of new cities, built with a human-centric mindset. These new cities wouldn’t cling to the old ways of thinking about land. Instead, they would embrace the idea that land is a shared resource, and its value is reflected in how well it serves the people who live on it.

In a world where everything is commodified, maybe the boldest thing we can do is refuse to play that game. And sure, this might sound like a pipe dream to some—a utopian fantasy—but look at the world we’re living in now. We’re constantly chasing after what others tell us is valuable, when perhaps the real value lies in breaking free from those chains.

I know there will be critics, those who will argue that land ownership is the bedrock of civilization, that without it, society would descend into chaos. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Civilization isn’t static. It evolves. And the systems we take for granted now will seem as absurd to future generations as feudalism seems to us today.

Philosophers like Hannah Arendt have long argued that the real power lies in the ability to create new beginnings, to think outside the constraints of the present moment and imagine a future that doesn’t yet exist. Maybe that’s what we need to be doing now—not trying to rebuild what’s broken, but imagining something entirely new.

I’m not looking to tear down what others have built. I’m looking to push forward, to create something better. Call it a dream if you like. But as someone who’s spent his life thinking, fighting, and grappling with ideas, I’ve learned that dreams are often where the most profound truths begin. And when enough people share a dream, it stops being a fantasy and starts becoming reality.

So let’s rethink what land means to us. Let’s stop seeing it as something to be owned and start seeing it as something to be shared, nurtured, and valued—not by price, but by its impact on the lives of those who live on it. Let’s build new cities that reflect this vision, where land serves the people and not the other way around. It’s not about going backward. It’s about forging ahead into a future that makes more sense.

And if that makes me sound like a nerd, brought up by the ninja turtle ronin of old, then so be it. I’ll take that label proudly, as long as it means I’m thinking about the world in a way that’s harder to strike down in an argument.