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Reality Is a Thought: How Physics, Neuroscience, and Psychology Undermine the Objective World

We like to think of reality as something objective, solid, and universally shared. Yet, a closer look at discoveries across physics, neuroscience, and psychology suggests something quite different: that what we call “reality” may be nothing more than a personal construct—something created in each individual’s mind.

This article explores that idea by drawing together insights from quantum physics, neuroscience, personal construct psychology, and the philosophical mathematics of G. Spencer-Brown.

1. Quantum Physics: The Observer Shapes the Observed

Quantum theory, especially as interpreted through the lens of the observer effect, challenges our notion of an independent reality. In experiments like the famous double-slit experiment, particles behave differently depending on whether they are being observed. Until measured, they exist in a state of superposition—multiple possibilities at once.

As physicist John Wheeler proposed in his Participatory Anthropic Principle:

“No phenomenon is a real phenomenon until it is an observed phenomenon.”

At the quantum level, the act of observation collapses possibility into experience, making the observer an essential part of reality’s unfolding.

2. Neuroscience: Thought Isn’t Even in Sync With the Brain

Further support for the unreliability of "objective" experience comes from neuroscience. Research by Benjamin Libet in the 1980s showed that brain activity precedes conscious awareness of decision-making. In other words, we decide before we know we have decided.

Other cognitive scientists, like Daniel Wegner in The Illusion of Conscious Will, argue that:

• Thoughts often arise after the brain has acted.

• Consciousness may be more a storytelling module than a control centre.

This means that our awareness—and thus our picture of reality—is not real-time, but a retrospectively constructed narrative.

3. George Kelly: We Are All Personal Scientists

In the 1950s, psychologist George Kelly introduced Personal Construct Theory, arguing that each person is a kind of scientist, building and testing hypotheses about the world.

Kelly wrote:

“Experience is not what happens to a person; it is what he does with what happens to him.”

According to Kelly, our "reality" is built from constructs—mental categories through which we interpret the world. Two people can experience the same event and draw radically different conclusions, not because one is wrong, but because each constructs a different reality.

4. G. Spencer-Brown: Distinction Is the First Act

In Laws of Form (1969), mathematician and philosopher G. Spencer-Brown proposed that reality begins with a distinction. Before anything can be known, something must be marked as "this" and not "that."

“To distinguish is to create form. Form is the first reality.”

Cognition, then, begins with the act of separating one thing from another. There is no object without a boundary, no meaning without a contrast. Reality, in this view, is not given but drawn into being by the observer.

For a concise summary, see this overview by Louis H. Kauffman.

So, Does “Reality” Exist?

If quantum physics shows that observation collapses possibility, neuroscience reveals that thought is reconstructed, psychology tells us that we build meaning through mental categories, and logic mathematics affirms that distinction precedes form—then we arrive at a bold conclusion:

“Reality” is not something given. It is something made—by each of us, within our minds.

There may be a raw field of potential, but what becomes “real” is always shaped by perception, expectation, and awareness.

Epilogue: The Political Illusion of “Managing Reality”

If reality is, at its core, individually constructed — shaped by perception, belief, and meaning — then how absurd it is for politics to pretend it can manage or control “reality” for everyone.

Politicians and ideologies often act as though:

• Reality is objective and stable.

• It can be dictated through policy or enforced by law.

• Everyone sees the world in the same way and simply needs to be “informed” or “corrected.”

But if no two people see the same world, and even the act of seeing is subjective and filtered, then this notion collapses.

A “unified national reality” is a fiction — a convenient one, but a fiction nonetheless.

This doesn’t mean that shared agreements (like laws, rights, and social contracts) are meaningless. It means they should be recognized as agreements, not truths. When politics forgets this and tries to impose “reality” by authority, it loses touch with what it means to be human — diverse, conscious, constructing meaning from within.

In that sense, the real task of politics might be not to enforce a single vision, but to allow room for many personal realities to coexist in peace.

Conclusion

To claim “there is no reality but individual thought” may sound radical, yet this idea is echoed from quantum physics to mysticism, from cognitive science to mathematical logic. Shared conventions (language, measurement, symbols) let us interact—but behind them lies a deeply personal, constructed world.

It seems the mystics and the physicists agree:

“The world you see is not the world itself—it is the world as you are.”

Addendum: What This Means for AI

If reality is individually constructed—emerging from perception, cognition, and awareness—what are we to make of artificial intelligence?

Unlike us, AI does not live in the world. It has no breath, no body, no awareness. It does not observe, interpret, or experience. It processes symbols. It detects statistical patterns. And while it can simulate human responses with impressive fluency, it does not and cannot construct “reality” in the same way a human does.

1. AI Accesses Representations, Not Reality

AI works with the traces we leave behind: texts, images, recordings. These are not reality, but reflections—snapshots of individual perspectives. As such, AI is forever removed from direct experience. It cannot distinguish between metaphor and literal truth, nor between profound insight and clever phrasing—except through our definitions.

2. AI Inherits Human Constructs — Biases and All

Every model is trained on human expression. If reality is subjectively filtered through individual minds, then AI is built on an enormous composite of constructed perspectives, complete with all their contradictions and cultural biases. What AI outputs is not neutral—it is a mirror of the worldviews encoded into its data.

3. AI Simulates Meaning, But Doesn’t Experience It

The meaning we construct arises from context, emotion, embodiment, and memory. AI has none of these. It generates semantic coherence, not lived understanding. It imitates the form of meaning without the substance.

To use Spencer-Brown’s language, AI can draw distinctions in logic, but it doesn’t inhabit the form. There is no "knower" behind the knowledge.

4. AI May Clarify or Confuse Our Reality-Making

Used well, AI can:

• Help uncover internal contradictions.

• Illuminate forgotten perspectives.

• Offer mirrors to our constructed worldviews.

Used poorly, it risks:

• Reinforcing ideological bubbles.

• Simulating false authority.

• Replacing felt knowing with artificial confidence.

5. The Real Risk: Mistaking Simulation for Truth

AI’s outputs sound plausible, fluent, and often persuasive. That makes it easy to confuse language mimicry with truth. But just because a phrase is well-formed doesn’t mean it reflects reality—especially when reality itself is subjective.

In a world where each person constructs their own meaning, AI should be seen not as a seer but as a tool—a remarkable one, but still dependent on human awareness, intention, and interpretation.

Final Thought

AI cannot create reality. But it can shape how we talk about it, and sometimes how we think about it.

In this new world, more than ever, the invitation remains:

Know yourself. Know the ground on which your reality is built. Be aware of the tools you use, and the stories they tell back to you.

The Real Source of Contentment: Why What You’re Looking for Is Already Inside

The Elusive Quest for Contentment: Looking Out vs. Looking In

What does everyone truly want?

Strip away the noise, the roles, the ambitions—and what’s left is something very simple:
A desire to feel content.
To feel satisfied.
To rest in the sense that nothing is missing.

And yet, almost universally, we look for that feeling on the outside.
A better friend.
A more loving partner.
The best children.
A new car.
A charming home.
All the latest gadgets.
A thriving career in the right location.

It’s understandable. We’ve been conditioned to believe that external circumstances hold the key. From childhood, we’re rewarded when we achieve, praised when we fit in, and comforted with things when we’re upset. It's no wonder we grow up scanning the world for that one missing piece—the final fix that will let us exhale and say, “Now everything is alright.”

I remember Prem Rawat, back in the 1980s, illustrating this so clearly.
He talked about watching the crowds on Oxford Street, or 5th Avenue, or Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse—streams of people flowing in and out of shops, all hunting for something. Maybe they couldn’t name it, but if you looked closely, it wasn’t just clothes or electronics they were chasing. It was a feeling. That elusive feeling of contentment. The sense that all is well.

And for a moment, those purchases might seem to bring it.
A new phone sparks joy—for a while.
The partner seems perfect—until their quirks grow tiring.
The dream holiday becomes a series of minor frustrations.
The job gets boring. Or you get fired.
The car breaks down.
The thrill fades.

So the search begins again.
Endless. Restless. Exhausting.

Why?

Because we’ve misunderstood the nature of contentment.

Contentment is not a commodity.
It’s not an event.
It’s not a reward.

It’s a feeling—and not just any feeling, but one that arises from within.
It lives in the same place as peace, clarity, and love.
Not outside in the ever-changing tides of experience, but inside—where the stillness is.

Think about it.

There’s a world outside, full of drama, noise, demands, expectations.
That’s the outer world.
It’s real, but it’s also fickle. Unreliable. It can give—and take away—in the blink of an eye.

Then there’s the inner world—the place where breath happens, where silence resides, where joy doesn’t need a reason.

Most people live as though the outer world is the only one that matters.
But the secret is this: the feeling we’re chasing out there? It was always inside.

It doesn’t mean we should give up on jobs, relationships, or homes.
It simply means we should stop expecting them to deliver something they’re not designed to give.

A flower can’t give you sunlight.
It can only bloom in it.

The same way, our outer circumstances can reflect contentment—but they can’t produce it.
That’s the job of the inner world.

So maybe the next time you find yourself longing for something “more,” ask yourself:
Is it the thing I really want?
Or is it the feeling I hope the thing will bring?

And if it’s the feeling—why not go directly to the source?

It’s already here.
Where it’s always been.
Inside.

The Gabbler: Making Peace with the Voice Inside Your Head

There’s a voice in my head. I’ve named him. He’s called The Gabbler.

He doesn’t sleep. He’s there in the morning before I open my eyes, already commenting on how I slept, what I should do next, and whether I’m likely to succeed or fail. He questions, compares, warns, accuses, and—oddly—sometimes flatters. He’s relentless.

Prem Rawat calls it “The Noise.” That endless, internal chatter the mind produces, regardless of the situation. My version has a personality: slightly anxious, often smug, always certain he knows what’s best for me. I call him The Gabbler because that’s what he does. Non-stop.

The Gabbler’s Origins: Evolution’s Gift?

I don’t blame him entirely. Part of this inner noise comes from an ancient place. Our species needed minds that could anticipate danger and remember painful lessons. “Don’t eat that mushroom again.” “Stay away from the lion’s den.” The chatter may have saved lives once.

The human brain evolved to look for problems, even when there aren’t any. That habit didn’t go away just because we invented calendars and cappuccinos. So now the Gabbler works overtime, trying to be helpful in a world where physical survival isn’t under daily threat.

He worries about things like inboxes and reputations instead of wild animals and famine. But it’s the same machinery. Same fear, different wardrobe.

How the Gabbler Learned to Speak

What gave the Gabbler his vocabulary wasn’t nature—it was nurture. Parents, teachers, priests, bosses, experts. All contributed lines to the script. Each criticism, each warning, each moment of embarrassment was noted and stored.

He mimics authority figures. He adopts their tone. Sometimes I catch a phrase and realise: that’s not even mine. A stern schoolmaster from 1964 still lives rent-free in my head, occasionally scolding me when I spill the tea.

This is what conditioning does. It turns memories into messages that repeat, often without context or compassion. And over time, The Gabbler begins to sound like “me.”

The Now: Where the Gabbler Fades

But there’s something I’ve discovered. Something deeper than all the chatter. Something simple. Something real.

It’s called Now.
It’s not a place. Not a belief. It’s not something to achieve. It’s the moment that breathes. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t justify itself. It just is.

And when I give my attention to this breath—this inhale, this exhale—the Gabbler quiets down. Sometimes he leaves. Sometimes he mumbles from a distance. But he’s not in charge anymore.

Prem Rawat once said, “There’s a place in you that’s untouched by the noise.”
That’s the place I go when I remember. When I choose to come back to this breath, this moment, this awareness. Not to analyse it, but to experience it.

Living with the Gabbler

I don’t try to kill the Gabbler. He’s part of the package. But I’ve learned not to take advice from him.

He means well, in his own misguided way. But his obsession with past and future keeps him blind to the only place life is actually happening: here. Now.

So I let him talk. I smile at his urgency. But I don’t follow him. I’ve found a deeper guide—one that doesn’t speak in words.

A Gentle Suggestion

If you’re aware of your own Gabbler—or Noise—try giving it a name. It helps. Make it less mysterious. Notice how often it’s talking. Notice how rarely it’s helpful.

And then, just once today, stop. Feel your breath. Not think about it—feel it. Be here, without analysis. See if the Gabbler gets bored. He probably will.

And in that silence, you might hear something else:
Not a voice, but a feeling.
A presence.
A quiet joy.
You.

The Squirrel on the Bridge: A Quiet Lesson from the Ramayana

In the epic Ramayana, filled with kings, demons, and divine battles, there's a quiet tale that continues to inspire hearts across generations: the story of a humble squirrel and her devotion to Lord Rama.

As Rama prepared to cross the ocean to Lanka to rescue Sita, his army of Vanaras—monkey warriors led by Hanuman—began building the Ram Setu, a bridge of stones across the sea. Massive rocks were hurled into the ocean, creating a path where none had existed before.

Amid this mighty labour, a small squirrel decided to help. She couldn’t carry boulders or even pebbles, so she did what she could. Rolling in the sand, she ran to the bridge and shook the grains into the gaps between the rocks. Then she ran back to do it again. And again.

Some Vanaras mocked her. Some were annoyed. “You’re too small to help,” they said. “Stay out of the way.”

But Rama saw her. Gently picking her up, he stroked her back in gratitude and said:

“She may be small, but her heart is big. She is doing what she can—and that is enough.”

From that moment on, it is said, the squirrel bore three white stripes on her back—marks of Rama’s loving fingers, still seen today on the Indian palm squirrel.

A Lesson for All of Us

This simple story from Hindu mythology reminds us that the value of an act lies not in its size but in its sincerity. When the world feels too large and our contribution too small, we might remember the squirrel.

In every great undertaking—whether building a literal bridge, healing a relationship, or offering peace to a troubled heart—small efforts matter. Each kind word, each thoughtful action, every grain of sand adds up.

We don’t all have to carry stones. Sometimes, it is enough to carry sand.