The Ancient of Days, William Blake (1794)
“I myself find the division of the world into an objective and a subjective side much too arbitrary. The fact that religions through the ages have spoken in images, parables, and paradoxes means simply that there are no other ways of grasping the reality to which they refer. But that does not mean that it is not a genuine reality. And splitting this reality into an objective and a subjective side won’t get us very far.”
-Niels Bohr
“You can’t go on ‘seeing through’ things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. To ‘see through’ all things is the same as not to see.”
-C.S. Lewis
Volume 2
Chapter 2: The Mystery of Consciousness
Wonder Woman
There’s a certain magic to experience that always seems to resist reductionism. When Diana, the immortal Amazon, encounters snow for the first time, it’s as if the world has paused, gifting her a moment of pure, unfiltered joy. This entirely new sensation brings to mind Frank Jackson’s Mary’s Room thought experiment, which probes the nature of consciousness and the apparent divide between the subjective world of experience and the material world. Could the sensation of falling snow—a blend of coolness, softness, and awe—be fully encapsulated by a materialistic explanation, tracing from the receptors in our skin that grant us the sense of touch to the intricate workings of the nervous system? Or does it point to something irreducible in the act of experiencing itself? Just as Mary, despite her complete physical knowledge of color, discovers something fundamentally new when she first sees it, Diana’s encounter with snow suggests that experience might transcend the sum of its material components. I believe experience can be understood through a materialistic framework. While I acknowledge the limitations of this assertion, it still strikes me as the most reasonable approach. Admittedly, the comparison feels somewhat forced—experience is inherently subjective, while a purely materialistic, objective worldview seems at odds with our lived experience—but it undeniably offers valuable insights.
I see materialism as a tool for understanding reality, one that, despite its gaps, allows us to make sense of the mechanisms underlying phenomena like perception and consciousness. Experience arises from the interaction between a perceiver and a stimulus. The challenge in understanding experience lies partly in its inherently personal nature, leading some to believe that no amount of information could ever truly capture it. But I disagree. Theoretically, one could “calculate” a subjective experience; it’s simply that the sheer complexity makes it practically impossible. Qualia are difficult to define precisely because everyone’s subjective experience is so intricate, resulting from everything that makes you who you are: personality traits, memories, environment, every cell and synapse. Ultimately, all of these have a materialistic basis. Of course, this still leaves the problem of subjectivity itself unresolved, but that’s intertwined with the deeper mystery of life’s emergence, a question that, while inherently related to qualia, is even more fundamental.
Even if that mystery remains unsolved, as products of evolution, we have no reason to assume we can fully grasp the true essence of reality. Science has made remarkable strides, but we are still limited beings. The fact that a specific explanation can’t be definitively proven doesn’t preclude it from being the most likely scenario. Rejecting materialism simply because our understanding of it is incomplete seems unwise, especially in the absence of a compelling alternative. In this context, the relationship between experience and materialistic reality is akin to that between a mosaic and its individual tiles. They are deeply interconnected, yet distinct. Each tile in a mosaic contributes to the overall image, but the full picture emerges only when all the pieces are viewed together. Similarly, emergence brings about new properties that originate from simpler elements, yet these properties cannot be entirely explained by their origins alone. The irreducibility observed in complex systems isn’t a flaw but a characteristic of emergence. Why should experience be any different?
In any given phenomenological instance, there’s an interaction between external stimuli and the perceiver, and this interaction gives rise to qualia—the subjective experience of perception. This dynamic is also the root of Camus’ concept of the absurd, which emerges from the dissonance between our intrinsic expectation of meaning, reason, and unity, and the universe’s apparent lack of inherent purpose. However, if we abandon these expectations, the absurd itself vanishes. Camus argues that the absurd is not an inherent property of the universe but a result of our clash with it—a byproduct of our unfulfilled yearning for coherence in an indifferent cosmos. Recognizing this interplay reshapes our relationship with meaning, perhaps liberating us from the tension the absurd imposes.
In fact, there’s nothing beyond what you’re perceiving in that very moment. Perhaps this is where Buddhism offers valuable insights. You are nothing but the perceiver, hence the emphasis on meditative practices that focus on the present moment. It’s unfortunate that religious ideas have become so intertwined with superstition and the supernatural, making them easy to dismiss in our age of rapid scientific advancement. Historical dogmatism hasn’t helped either. Yet, at their core, religions grapple with profoundly important questions: how should one exist? Where do we find meaning? These are philosophical questions that scientific inquiry alone cannot fully answer. As I’ve mentioned before, humankind is inherently philosophical, and religion is a by-product of this philosophical inquiry—an ancient, collective exploration of existentialism, ontology, and ethics, often veiled in myth. The supposed scientific validity of religious claims is almost beside the point; those who either defend or oppose religion solely on factual grounds miss its deeper essence.
The film’s use of a gas to represent evil is interesting. Our cultural and historical understanding of gas is often tied to breath and consciousness. When you die, you cease to breathe, and so breath, air, and by extension, gas, are often seen as the animating forces that give life to inert matter. This association is deeply rooted in our language and thought. In the Bible, for instance, the word nephesh is usually translated as “soul,” but in Hebrew, it also means “breath,” connecting the essence of being with the physical act of breathing. Of course, our modern understanding of life extends far beyond “breath,” encompassing complex biological processes at the cellular and molecular level. This could be considered a higher-resolution analysis, going into the intricate mechanisms that constitute life. But a lower-resolution view, like the one that links breath to the soul, isn’t necessarily wrong; it simply offers a different perspective, a more symbolic and metaphorical understanding.
We often assume that our tools for understanding should always improve, capturing greater resolution and detail, and that this alone will provide definitive answers. But this isn’t always the case. Sometimes, increasing resolution doesn’t lead to greater understanding. This could be because the tool itself is unsuitable for the question at hand, like trying to find a purely scientific solution to a philosophical problem. Or it could be that the answer depends on a specific level of resolution that matches the context of the inquiry. The world is infinitely complex, and to make sense of it within a human framework, we impose boundaries, focusing our attention on specific levels of detail. Attempting to grasp a library’s complete meaning all at once—from the arrangement of the books to the individual words on each page, down to the chemical composition of the ink—yields very little insight. Instead, we must choose a level of analysis appropriate to the kind of meaning we seek. This necessity parallels the framing problem that has hindered the development of strong AI for decades: how can we teach a machine to discern what is relevant from an overwhelming sea of data and analyze it at the right level of abstraction? The challenge lies in defining a representation of reality that is both sufficiently rich and contextually meaningful, enabling the system to focus on the relevant details while filtering out everything else. This capacity to frame information appropriately remains a cornerstone of human cognition and a significant hurdle for artificial intelligence.
Returning to the “evil gas” in the film: I was initially curious how the story would bridge the realm of gods with the real world. While the notion of “a gas containing evil” might seem silly at first glance, I think it’s surprisingly accurate in a symbolic sense. It functions as an invisible, pervasive force that can possess and corrupt individuals, much like hatred, revenge, and resentment can consume people and drive their actions. Abstracting these destructive emotions into a physical entity within the narrative creates a representation of evil that aligns with many religious and mythological depictions. It gives form to the formless, allowing the audience to visualize and comprehend the insidious influence of evil on human behavior.
I was intrigued by how the film would navigate the clash between the divine realm and our mortal world, with all its mundane concerns and conflicts. Typically, a narrative unfolds in one domain–the mythological or the realistic–because blending the two is challenging. In Wonder Woman, both the existence and nonexistence of Ares (the god of war) felt peculiar. If he exists as a literal entity, why did World War I unfold with such devastating human agency? If he doesn’t, where is the divine influence in human affairs? Yet, I appreciated how the movie merged religious ideas of good and evil into a mythological framework applicable to modern life, revealing the underlying “truth” of these ideas. By rooting the exploration of good and evil in mythology, the film allows viewers to engage with these complex concepts without getting bogged down in concerns about scientific validity. The mythological lens provides a safe distance for exploring timeless human struggles.
I felt almost embarrassed during the scene where Steve, the male protagonist, tells Diana that people aren’t inherently good, and that evil isn’t concentrated in any single individual but is part of human nature, and therefore can’t be simply “killed.” It’s a powerful moment, an acknowledgment of personal responsibility for one’s own capacity for evil. This is ultimately a religious notion, a recognition of the inherent flaws within humanity that many spiritual traditions grapple with. However, our contemporary society is so materialistic and anti-religious that this idea must be “diluted” into a superhero narrative to be palatable. It’s like baby food for philosophical infants, a simplified version of a complex truth. It’s embarrassing that we need these ideas presented in such a simplistic, cheesy way, but perhaps this reflects a deeper societal inability to confront uncomfortable truths about ourselves.
Another way to interpret the duality of divinity and mortality in the film is through the lens of fighting with ideas versus fighting physically–that is, taking action in the world. I remember being younger and wanting to change the world. There was so much suffering, and I yearned for something better. Yet, politics never appealed to me; it felt inherently corrupt, a realm of compromise and dirty dealings. Instead, I leaned towards a communist utopian ideal. I had long debates with my father, trying to convince him that society needed a revolution. I was naive, of course. I was also very young–maybe under 13–and had no real understanding of the complexities of communism or Marxism, though I was likely influenced by them indirectly through the cultural and intellectual climate I lived in. Eventually, as I matured, I recognized the flaws in that revolutionary thinking, especially in recent years. Interestingly, as the allure of “revolution” faded, my appreciation for politics grew. Even now, it’s not immense, but I acknowledge its value. When I was younger, the very idea of politics disgusted me. I’ve come to realize that while politics may not change the world drastically–it often alters it subtly, almost imperceptibly – it does have an impact. In a sense, the magnitude of the change is less important than the striving for something better, the persistent effort to improve the human condition.
This personal evolution in my thinking about change reminded me of the subplots in Wonder Woman. Steve operates in the “real world” of politics and war, engaging in the messy, compromised realm of human affairs. Diana, on the other hand, fights evil itself, embodied in Ares. But because evil, as the film suggests, can’t be completely eradicated, politics becomes the humble practice of gradually addressing our collective flaws, mirroring the idea of incremental change in the “physical” world. It’s a difficult task, fraught with challenges, because the system is often corrupt, and we ourselves are susceptible to that corruption. So, bearing the system’s moral burden while striving to improve it is the best we can do. The hope is that by engaging in the battles we can fight, the war of the “gods,” the struggle against the deeper roots of evil within ourselves, will eventually follow.
Superheroes exert a powerful pull on our collective psyche. It’s not simply the spectacle of their abilities, but something deeper, something resonant with the human condition. The concept of possessing extraordinary power and wielding it for good taps into a primal yearning within us. This fascination isn’t limited to comic book pages; it’s in the very fabric of our myths, legends, and cultural narratives.
Consider the ubiquitous “power-up” trope in cartoons, often depicted with dramatic transformations and surges of energy. Despite its inherent theatricality, it speaks to a universal desire–the awakening of latent potential. We imagine a dormant power within us, waiting to be unleashed, a hidden strength yearning for expression. This “power-up” symbolizes the realization of that potential, the moment we transcend our limitations and step into a greater version of ourselves. This desire for self-transcendence, to evolve and become something more, is a fundamental human aspiration.
But the allure of superheroes goes beyond the mere possession of power. It’s their unwavering commitment to good that truly captivates us. We see in them a reflection of our own yearning to unleash our latent capabilities constructively, to make a positive impact on the world. However, this path is anything but easy. The raw power within us, often forged in the crucible of suffering and existential struggle, can be a double-edged sword. It can be a source of immense good, but also a conduit for destruction.
Diana’s journey in Wonder Woman exemplifies this struggle. Before fully accessing her divine power, she experiences a momentary but consequential surrender to her darker impulses. This outburst, though brief, underscores a crucial truth: everyone harbors darkness within. It’s an unavoidable aspect of the human condition, a byproduct of our inherent flaws and the trials we face. This inner darkness is not easily tamed; it requires constant vigilance and self-mastery. The superhero embodies the ideal of someone who not only unleashes their inner power but also possesses the strength and wisdom to control it. They are the epitome of self-mastery, capable of channeling their inner turmoil–the shame, guilt, alienation, and resentment–into a force for good. They transform their suffering into energy that heals and uplifts, making existence more bearable for themselves and others. Fiction often dramatizes this process, cloaking it in the fantastical and the supernatural, but the underlying principle remains the same: the alchemization of inner darkness into a catalyst for positive change.
My own exploration of mythological archetypes deepened my understanding of the hero narrative and its profound impact on cultural and moral development. It prompted me to reflect on my personal connection to these archetypes, questioning my own preferences and motivations. I found myself drawn to certain villains, questioning whether this affinity aligned me with their ideals. This introspection led me to a crucial realization: the appeal of a character, hero or villain, is often determined by how they are written. Heroes are typically defined by two primary attributes: power and virtue. Each exists on a spectrum, creating a complex interplay of possibilities. At the extremes of character development, we find four main types: the good but powerless, who have strong morals but lack the means to enforce them; the good and powerful, who use their great abilities for good; the bad but powerless, who have harmful intentions but can’t act on them; and the powerful villain, who uses their significant power for harm. A hero, in its essence, is simply a protagonist fighting for an ideal that seems impossible to achieve. By diminishing a hero’s power or compromising their virtue, we make them more relatable, more human. This vulnerability and imperfection not only fosters empathy but also introduces an element of unpredictability, making their story more compelling.
In Hindu mythology, the Trimurti represents the God of Gods, a being often conceived as encompassing everything—creation, preservation, and destruction—through Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. This triad reflects the cyclical and multifaceted nature of divinity. My own mystical experience led me to understand God as the embodiment of meaning and truth. However, I initially overlooked a crucial element: transcendence. Transcendence is the act of going beyond, of constantly pushing the boundaries of our limitations. If we continually strive to surpass our current state, the ultimate abstraction of this endless transcendence is God, encompassing the totality of reality. God, in this sense, always surpasses our existing knowledge structures because transcendence, by definition, is that which we are not or do not yet know. It is the ever-receding horizon of our understanding. If there is a perennial truth at the core of the world’s spiritual traditions, it might be this triad of meaning, truth, and transcendence. This universal concept finds expression in the diverse narratives of each culture, echoing the philosophical idea of perennialism—the notion that all major religions share a core truth, transcending specific doctrines and practices.
Returning to Hindu mythology, the famed Trimurti—Brahma the creator, Vishnu the preserver, and Shiva the destroyer—offers a compelling framework for understanding the divine. This categorization resonates because creation, preservation, and destruction are fundamental aspects of reality, constantly shaping and reshaping existence. But the Trimurti also serves another purpose: it makes God more relatable by bringing the level of transcendence slightly closer to human experience. By dividing the divine essence into three distinct aspects, each with its own domain and responsibilities, the Trimurti bridges the gap between the infinite and the finite, allowing us to grasp the divine in a more tangible way.
This principle of relatable transcendence also applies to the construction of compelling heroes. A perfectly powerful and virtuous hero, while aspirational, can feel distant and unattainable. Their flawlessness creates a gulf between them and the audience, hindering our ability to truly connect with their struggles and triumphs. This is precisely why heroes sometimes need their power diminished or their virtue compromised. By introducing vulnerabilities and imperfections, we make them more human, more relatable. This same logic likely inspired the concept of demigods—offspring of a god and a mortal—figures who embody the union of the divine and the human, further bridging the gap between these two realms.
From the different types of archetypes discussed earlier, the one that often dominates narratives is the perfectly virtuous, all-powerful archetype. This figure, embodying the ultimate ideal, is a staple of popular stories. After all, who doesn’t desire maximum power to shape the world and maximum virtue to ensure those changes are for the better? While individuals may have differing conceptions of what constitutes “right,” everyone ultimately sees themselves as the hero of their own story. Resentment and other negative emotions can distort this self-perception, but generally, we all strive for virtue as we define it.
This inherent desire for power and virtue explains why I often found traditional heroes unappealing. The constant recycling of the same archetype—the flawless champion of good—becomes predictable and dull. In contrast, villains often deviate from this formula, exhibiting a wider range of motivations, flaws, and complexities that make them more compelling. My preference for villains wasn’t rooted in a lack of admiration for heroism, but rather in a desire for more nuanced and multifaceted characters. The “heroes” often felt uninteresting because they adhered rigidly to a single archetype, offering little room for surprise or genuine engagement. There’s nothing inherently wrong with an all-powerful, all-virtuous hero, but it becomes tiresome if that’s all we ever encounter.
This fatigue with the traditional hero archetype partly explains the success of unconventional narratives like One Punch Man. This anime series takes the typical hero story to an absurd extreme: Saitama, the protagonist, can defeat any opponent with a single punch. He’s so overwhelmingly powerful that it borders on parody. The series derives its appeal from this very subversion, mocking the tropes and conventions of the genre while simultaneously delivering a compelling narrative. I also find many Japanese stories engaging for a similar reason. Arising from a different cultural tradition, they offer a more diverse and nuanced portrayal of heroism. Their heroes exist across a wider spectrum of power and virtue. Some possess immense strength, while others are more grounded in their abilities. Some are paragons of virtue, while others grapple with moral ambiguity. This broader range of characterization feels closer to reality, reflecting the complexities and contradictions of human nature, rather than fixating solely on the ultimate good. This starkly contrasts with the often idealized portrayals of modern Western heroes like Superman or Captain America. Characters like Gon from Hunter x Hunter or Guts from Berserk offer a refreshing departure from these archetypes, showcasing the struggles and complexities inherent in the pursuit of power and justice.
Even villains, despite their often destructive tendencies, can offer valuable insights into the human condition. Many are driven by a desire to change the world, even if their methods are immoral or their goals misguided. In their own minds, they are often striving for a better world, although by twisted means. This desire for improvement, though warped, reflects a fundamental human impulse–the urge to shape our reality and leave our mark on the world. The challenge lies in balancing this drive for change with the need for stability and order. Villains, in their extremism, can expose the flaws of a society while also demonstrating how the pursuit of justice can easily become pathological if fueled by resentment and a thirst for vengeance. Nietzsche explored this extensively, particularly in his essay “On the Tarantula,” where he dissects the psychology of those who cloak their personal vendettas in the language of morality and righteousness. Similarly, Kurt Vonnegut’s short story “Harrison Bergeron” critiques well-intentioned efforts towards equality that ultimately devolve into oppressive tyranny. They remind us that even the noblest ideals can be corrupted, and that the path to a better world requires a careful approach, balancing the need for change with the preservation of essential freedoms and values.
The interplay between our expectations and the reality the world delivers is a complex dynamic. Neuroscience reveals that we construct an internal model of reality based on sensory input, and it’s within this mental framework that we navigate our lives. While this model must be accurate enough for us to function, it remains an imperfect representation of the external world. Psychoanalytic theory further suggests that we are constantly striving to perceive the world in ways that align with our desires and preconceptions, but these attempts often clash with the actuality of existence. This dissonance applies not only to our perception of physical objects, but also to abstract concepts, relationships, and indeed, every facet of our experience.
Camus’ philosophical concept of the absurd emerges from this fundamental friction between the self and the world. While Camus focused primarily on the question of meaning, the absurd can be understood more broadly as the gap between our expectations and the reality we encounter. We impose ideals, values, and meanings onto a world that stubbornly refuses to conform to our personal visions. This inherent mismatch between our internal models and external reality often leads to frustration and a sense of alienation. To reconcile this disparity, we create elaborate systems of meaning, including philosophical and religious frameworks, that attempt to bridge the gap and provide a sense of order and coherence.
The concept of God, prevalent in virtually every human culture, may arise from this innate human drive to reconcile the ideal with the real. We envision a perfect ideal, a source of ultimate meaning and value, and with a limited understanding of the natural world, we readily personify this ideal. In different historical periods, this personification takes on various forms and narratives, often becoming highly dramatized and imbued with supernatural attributes. This yearning for an ideal that transcends the limitations of our mortal existence may explain the enduring power and pervasiveness of religious belief. Many religions propose that humans possess both a divine and a mortal component. Christianity, for example, often equates consciousness–the capacity for abstract thought and self-awareness–with the divine, contrasting it with the material world. We are, in essence, collections of atoms, yet we also possess the remarkable ability to reflect upon ourselves and the universe around us. From this perspective, the notion that “everyone is part divine” becomes a symbolic expression of this duality. While the specifics may not align with modern scientific understanding, the underlying sentiment resonates with our intuitive sense of being something more than mere matter.
Interestingly, even those who reject traditional religious beliefs often exhibit a reverence for consciousness. Atheists, despite their explicit denial of the supernatural, frequently demonstrate through their behavior and ethical systems that they place a high value on consciousness and human life. The term “divine,” though often associated with religious contexts, can be understood more broadly to signify something of ultimate value, something that occupies the pinnacle of our personal value hierarchy. This doesn’t necessitate a supernatural interpretation; rather, it reflects the human tendency to imbue certain concepts or experiences with profound significance. Even in casual conversation, when we describe something as “divine,” we are essentially expressing its proximity to our ideal.
This brings us to the concept of truth. Truth, by its very nature, eliminates the gap between our perceptions, statements, or thoughts and the actual state of affairs. It resolves the tension of Camus’ absurd and, in doing so, unites the subjective and objective realms. When we attain truth, our internal model aligns perfectly with external reality. Ego and reality merge; there is no longer an ideal to strive for because we embody the ideal itself, achieving a state of unity between matter and abstraction. Falsehood, on the other hand, perpetuates the gap between our claims and reality. It represents a model tainted by delusion, a distortion that truth seeks to rectify. By closing this divide, truth leads us towards a state of being that can be metaphorically described as “divine.” However, as limited and fallible beings, we rarely, if ever, experience complete truth. Our understanding of the world is always partial and incomplete. If we were to achieve a state of perfect knowledge, it might indeed resemble the concept of “heaven.” Conversely, a life lived entirely in falsehood, where our perceptions are consistently misaligned with reality, could be likened to a state of “hell.”
I believe my earliest philosophical memory dates back to when I was about twelve years old. My brother came home from high school and recounted his first philosophy lesson: you should seek what is meaningful, fighting to make your dreams a reality regardless of the consequences. A dramatic scenario, perhaps, but I remember being captivated by the inherent dilemma. Should you truly chase meaning, no matter the cost? “While some dreams can be pursued alone, some are like storms, blowing apart hundreds of thousands of other dreams as they go. Every man has envisioned a life where he is his own martyr to his dream, his God.” Perhaps an authentic individual must never cling to someone else’s goal, but instead discover their own reason for living and follow that path without external guidance. And if people attempt to crush that dream, you defend it with your whole being. Fiction often explores this dilemma with villains who remain strangely admirable–purely for their authenticity–in their relentless pursuit of their dreams, regardless of the consequences. It’s trickier in reality because most villains, in fiction or otherwise, believe they are the heroes of their own stories. As Solzhenitsyn eloquently put it: “If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds... But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” This becomes even more complex if your dream is the “common good,” driven by utilitarian logic, a system of ethics based on the greatest good for the greatest number of people. Evil acts can be justified in service of that greater good. The trolley problem is a moral thought experiment that represents the ethical dilemmas faced when making decisions that can harm some to potentially save others. In this scenario, a runaway trolley is heading towards five people tied up on the tracks. You have the control to switch the trolley onto another track, but doing so will cause it to hit one person instead. This dilemma highlights the principle of consequentialism, which judges the morality of an action based on its outcomes. This dilemma perfectly exemplifies the struggle; does the end justify the means? Arguments exist on both sides, and there’s no definitive solution.
This also brings to mind Karl Popper’s paradox of tolerance: should a society be tolerant of those who aim to destroy tolerance? We aspire to be tolerant, but should our tolerance extend even to those who reject it? Popper’s conclusion was that we must be intolerant of intolerance to preserve a tolerant society, but in practice, it’s far from simple. Who decides whether someone is truly an enemy of tolerance? It’s easy to label those who disagree with us as “intolerant” and justify condemning them. Our polarized political climate is a prime example, and echo chambers only exacerbate this us-versus-them mentality.
It’s amusing how quickly this topic veers into the realm of ethics. On paper, it seems straightforward to say, “pursue your dreams as long as they’re moral,” but that immediately raises the question of right and wrong. You can define morality in general terms, but specific scenarios become murky. I love Death Note for this reason: Light, the main character, kills criminals to create a better world, which does reduce crime, yet undeniably crosses ethical lines. Are his methods justified or not? People are still divided on whether they support him. It’s a classic blurring of the lines between protagonist and antagonist. This archetype reappears constantly because it represents an eternal conundrum.
Reflecting on meaning brings me back to phenomenology, particularly Heidegger’s insight that the world doesn’t merely consist of isolated objects or raw sensations—it “shines forth” already laden with significance. Instead of perceiving a neutral collection of objects, we encounter things that are inherently meaningful within a specific context. A hammer, for instance, isn’t just an object; it “shines forth” as a tool for building when considered within the lived experience of a carpenter. This inherent significance isn’t something we impose but rather something that emerges from our interaction with the world, revealing a pre-structured, meaningful reality.
This realization struck me during a visit to the Joan Miró Foundation in Barcelona a few years ago. I had never been deeply interested in modern art, but one piece, The Hope of a Condemned Man, gripped me in a way I couldn’t initially explain. At first, it was baffling. The painting seemed so abstract that I had no idea how to approach it. Gradually, however, I realized I wasn’t searching for Miró’s exact message; rather, I was uncovering my own layers of interpretation. This resonates with E.H. Gombrich’s observation that modern art “gives the beholder increasingly more to do.” In essence, the viewer participates in constructing meaning—a process that invites openness and imagination.
In my attempt to make sense of Miró’s work, I noticed repeated motifs that seemed to evoke a flow of emerging and dissolving meanings. They reminded me of Heidegger’s point about the world’s inherent significance, but also of Csikszentmihalyi’s concept of “flow”, which arises out of an optimality that one needs to seek. Over the years, I’ve pursued radically different passions and felt utterly convinced each time that I’d never change again—yet I always do. This cyclical pattern, where one “circle” of meaning opens and closes, has taught me not to seal myself off prematurely. Each new interest, like each new insight in the painting, can reveal something deeper about who I am becoming.
Heidegger’s phenomenological stance also suggests that we must guard against reducing our experiences to static interpretations. If I had tried to “lock” the painting into a single, rigid explanation, I would have overlooked its invitation to keep searching. One of the greatest pitfalls in life—akin to “closing the circle”—is becoming so attached to one passion, one job, or one interpretation that we lose the capacity to see new possibilities. I’ve witnessed this many times: people cling to what was once meaningful, long after its power has faded.
Intriguingly, my epiphany about remaining open emerged during a moment of synchronicity: that peculiar alignment of events that feels significant, even if no clear causal link can be identified. It was as though the painting, my own internal dialogue, and external circumstances aligned to reinforce the lesson. The historical background of The Hope of a Condemned Man—completed on the day an anarchist was executed—might offer its own stark commentary, but in my experience, it became a catalyst for reflecting on the fluidity of meaning in my own life. Ultimately, as I interpreted the piece, I recognized how important it is to let the ego recede, much as one does in a flow state or mystical experience. This does not mean erasing the self altogether but allowing deeper intuitions to guide you toward what calls you next. Each of us has a “wiser version” lurking beneath the surface. Miró’s painting, for me, was a doorway to that deeper wisdom—a reminder that as soon as we think we’ve arrived at a final answer, new horizons of meaning may begin to shine forth once again. Though Miró’s painting is actually about a condemned anarchist and was completed on the day he was executed, but historical fact becomes a backdrop to my personal revelation. My interaction with the artwork, during this synchronistic moment, revealed insights about my own values and the transient nature of personal identity. Like a Rorschach Test, where people see meaningful patterns in random inkblots based on their psychological states, the painting prompted reflections on my inner world.
When I first began contemplating the concept of God, I initially viewed it as the embodiment of an idea or an archetype—a symbolic representation of something greater. However, my recent religious experiences have led me to explore a different perspective: the notion of a personal God, an actual being with presence and intention. These two ideas are not mutually exclusive; rather, one seems to extend and deepen the other. While much of what I believed before still resonates with me, I now sense that my earlier understanding might have been incomplete. Increasingly, I perceive God in deeply personal terms and recognize a striking convergence between the experience of mental illness and the divine. Across cultures, conceptions of God differ significantly, yet they share a fundamental core, rooted in the shared nature of humanity. All cultures, despite their surface differences, arise from the same basic drives and desires, shaped by how we collectively engage with reality. These shared elements form what can be understood as a collective unconscious—a part of the unconscious mind shared among beings of the same species, containing memories and behavioral predispositions common across cultures. It’s not a supernatural phenomenon, but one emerging from consistent variables: our consciousness and the environment we inhabit.
While cultures diverge enough to generate distinct ideals and narratives, these variations remain anchored in the common threads of human experience. This interplay between shared foundations and unique expressions shapes not only our understanding of the divine but also the broader systems of human belief and meaning. During my religious experience, I concluded that God was real because humanity had collectively created Him. I likened this to the way we create artificial intelligence. At first, sober reflection made this idea seem absurd, but over time, it no longer feels so outlandish. I now suspect my initial reasoning was flawed: it’s not that we created God as an external, supernatural being but rather as a distinct personality within each individual psyche. Since we share a common human blueprint, this God-persona becomes both personal and collective—a shared aspect of our psychological makeup.
Reflecting on that experience also reveals how misguided I was in my “miracle-seeking” moments. I longed for a supernatural sign, a divine intervention that would validate my belief. Yet such an event never occurred. And, in hindsight, how could it? God, as I now understand Him, operates within the psyche, not as an external force capable of intervening in the physical world. This doesn’t diminish God’s reality, but it challenges the conventional Abrahamic view of God as an external entity separate from humanity.
This perspective leads naturally to the topic of mental illness. Admittedly, what I’m about to say is speculative, but I currently view God as another personality within the psyche—one that embodies a set of values and ideals. This might be comparable to a mild form of dissociative identity. A mental health condition characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality states or identities within an individual. Each identity may have unique behaviors, memories, and ways of perceiving the world. It may sound strange, but most “healthy” people already experience something similar in the form of their conscience. The conscience feels like a part of you, yet it is not identical to your ego. It speaks to you, albeit without words, as though it exists in parallel to your main sense of self. How, then, do we accommodate this understanding without dismissing it as a symptom of mental illness? Is it possible that what we call “God” is a natural and even necessary part of the human psyche—a function that is not pathological, but deeply rooted in our shared humanity?
Socrates, the classical Greek philosopher renowned for his dedication to truth and moral inquiry, often at great personal cost, claimed to possess a divine voice that guided him. He described being guided by a “daimonion,” a divine inner voice that warned him against certain actions. This claim adds a spiritual dimension to his philosophical pursuits. His trial and subsequent execution for allegedly corrupting the youth and introducing new deities parallel Christ’s narrative in notable ways, particularly their shared commitment to their principles, even in the face of death, and the transformative legacy they left for future generations.
This raises questions about how society interprets and categorizes such experiences. Mental illness, at its core, often boils down to society labeling certain deviant behaviors as unhelpful or maladaptive. Conversely, if a behavior is deemed useful or beneficial, it tends to be tolerated or even celebrated. Historically, the concept of the conscience was often cited as proof of divinity, but this reasoning is circular: divinity itself is shaped by our deepest values and ideals. In this light, God can be understood as another form of conscience. While I am not entirely certain of the exact relationship between God and the conscience, I see them as closely related yet distinct. God, in this sense, does not exist to conjure literal miracles but rather resides within what might be called the collective soul of humanity. This internal divinity is shaped by our shared human experience, embodying the ideals and values we collectively hold most dear.