Seneca isn't merely saying that aims matter—he's suggesting that directionlessness creates a peculiar tyranny where even good fortune becomes useless. A promotion, an inheritance, a chance encounter: without knowing what you're actually after, these gifts scatter your energy rather than compound it. A person might spend years networking brilliantly, reading voraciously, staying disciplined, and still feel adrift because they've never asked *why*—and so each wind, each opportunity, pulls them sideways. The real sting of the observation is that effort without destination doesn't just waste time; it actually makes you *less* free, not more, since you're reactive to every favorable gust rather than guided by your own map.