“Fuck you, Karen. Like your truth is any better."

The Nonidentity Paradox: If any small change in the past could have prevented your birth, should you be grateful for all past tragedies since without them, you wouldn’t exist?

In science and philosophy, much of what we consider "truth" is speculative. We build models, form hypotheses, and test them, but rarely do we arrive at absolute certainty. Instead, what we find are provisional truths, truths that hold under certain conditions but might change as our understanding deepens.

The advancement of knowledge is a powerful driving force behind the evolution of truth. However, scientific truths are strictly provisional, meaning that they are the best explanations we have at the moment, based on available evidence. But science, by its nature, is always in pursuit of deeper understanding, and as more data becomes available or as new paradigms emerge, what we hold to be true shifts.

A paradox is like a trapdoor in the floor of certainty, forcing you to reexamine the boundaries of truth and illusion. They illustrate how truth is not static, but an evolving, shifting concept that resists final answers.

The Paradox of Knowledge: The more you learn, the more you realize how little you know. Every increase in knowledge also increases the awareness of ignorance, making truth infinitely elusive.

For example, Newton’s laws of motion and gravity were accepted as universal truths for centuries, until the development of Einstein’s theory of relativity. Einstein didn’t render Newton’s laws false, but he showed that they only apply under certain conditions—specifically, within the realm of classical mechanics, and not at the extremes of high speed or strong gravitational fields. This is how truth evolves in science: it becomes more nuanced, more precise, but it often retains its earlier forms in specific contexts.

Culturally, truth evolves through the reinterpretation of history and values. As new generations emerge, they reassess the past and its narratives. For example, the way history views colonialism has evolved dramatically. Where it was once seen by European powers as a civilizing mission, modern historical perspectives highlight the oppression, violence, and exploitation involved in the process.

This shift doesn’t mean that one version of history is true while the other is false—it shows that truth is contextual and shaped by the values of a particular time. As cultural norms evolve, so too does the way we construct truth. We can see this in the ongoing debates about statues, monuments, and public memory. What was once celebrated may now be contested, and this contestation reveals how historical truth is not fixed but contingent upon the moral and ethical lenses of the present.

This iterative process is the key to scientific truth. It’s self-correcting, driven by falsifiability and the willingness to constantly question and refine what we think we know. This willingness to embrace uncertainty, paradoxically, is what allows truth to evolve.

The Sorites Paradox (The Paradox of the Heap): If you remove one grain of sand from a heap, it’s still a heap. But if you keep removing grains one by one, when does it stop being a heap? Truth about categorization becomes undefined, blurred by gradual change.

At its most basic, truth is subjective—dependent on how individuals or societies perceive and experience reality. What was considered true in one era, or within one culture, may be seen differently in another. Take, for example, the medieval belief in a geocentric universe, where the Earth was the center of everything. For centuries, this was held as the absolute truth, not just by scholars but by the church and society at large. Yet, through the work of thinkers like Copernicus and Galileo, this truth was overturned, evolving into the heliocentric model we accept today.

Here, truth evolves not just because of new information, but because the tools we use to perceive the world change. As our scientific instruments improve, our ability to measure and observe the universe becomes more precise, and with that, our understanding of truth deepens. But even this evolution of truth is shaped by social and cultural contexts—the pushback Galileo faced from religious authorities is a reminder that truth isn’t purely objective. It is always embedded in power structures and worldviews that resist change.

This evolution of truth is not just a philosophical idea—it reflects real-world dynamics. Truth is constantly being negotiated in societal contexts. What we hold as true today about gender, race, or identity has dramatically shifted over the last century, as cultural attitudes and social movements challenge the status quo. Here, truth evolves as society evolves, often through conflict, debate, and the reevaluation of long-held assumptions.

From an existential standpoint, truth is something we each experience differently. The way we interpret reality is shaped by our upbringing, our culture, our emotions, and even our biology. What’s true for one person may not be true for another. This is the foundation of subjective truth, the idea that there are multiple truths, each one valid in its own context.

The Ship of Theseus: If you replace each part of a ship one by one, is it still the same ship when none of the original parts remain? Does truth about identity depend on continuity, or is it shaped by the changes themselves?

For example, take the simple experience of pain. It’s a deeply personal and subjective truth. Two people might experience the same physical injury, yet one might describe the pain as excruciating, while the other finds it tolerable. The experience is real for both, but the truth of that pain is different for each person. Subjective truth depends on our individual perceptions and how we interpret reality.

On a personal level, truth evolves as we grow and reflect on our experiences. Psychologically, human beings are in a constant state of narrating and renarrating their own truths. Our understanding of who we are, what we value, and what we believe to be true changes over time. This personal evolution is crucial to understanding the broader concept of truth.

The classical view of a stable, cohesive self, which originated in Descartes’ famous assertion "Cogito, ergo sum" (I think, therefore I am), is being dismantled.

In both philosophy and psychology, thinkers are questioning the coherence of individual identity. Lacanian psychoanalysis, for instance, introduced the idea that the self is perpetually in flux, formed in response to external symbols, desires, and language games. Now, with increasing exploration into cognitive science and artificial intelligence, the concept of a "stable self" seems even more tenuous.

Posthumanism pushes this further by questioning whether human consciousness, historically treated as a uniquely human essence, can exist in hybrid forms—through cybernetic augmentation, genetic manipulation, or even virtual realities. The challenge is no longer about "who we are" but "what we are becoming." Philosophers like Donna Haraway and Rosi Braidotti extend this critique, arguing that the boundaries between human, machine, and environment are dissolving, pushing humanity toward an era where identity is splintered and fluid.

Carl Jung, the psychoanalyst, talked about the process of individuation, where a person evolves toward self-realization by integrating both their conscious and unconscious elements. In this process, what we once held as true about ourselves—our identity, our purpose, our fears—may change dramatically. For example, someone may live a portion of their life under one set of beliefs or cultural norms, but as they grow older and encounter new ideas or experiences, those beliefs might evolve or even reverse entirely. This shift shows that truth is deeply personal and constantly in flux, as it mirrors our inner transformation.

There’s at times a sense that certain truths are simply unknowable. This idea is tied to the limits of human perception and cognition. There may be realities, forces, or dimensions beyond our comprehension, and our truths are limited by our capacity to understand. Immanuel Kant famously argued that we can never know the “thing-in-itself,” or the true nature of reality. We only experience the world through the filter of our senses and mental faculties, meaning there’s always a gap between what is and what we can know.

This leads to the concept of epistemic humility—the understanding that human knowledge is inherently limited, that we might never fully grasp the totality of truth. The subjective and speculative nature of truth forces us to recognize the unknowability of many aspects of existence.

Truth may be less about objective reality and more about how we experience the world. The polymath spirit—whether it’s Musashi mastering the sword or Leonardo da Vinci blending art and science—thrives on the idea that truth is something we experience through a diversity of perspectives. The more we explore, the more complex and beautiful the truth becomes, precisely because it cannot be pinned down to a single, immutable reality.

Take the example of quantum physics. The truth about the behavior of particles at the subatomic level is deeply speculative. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle shows us that the more precisely we measure one property of a particle, the less we can know about another (relativities captain obvious, i.e. he was just a grifting, self-serving, nazi boy). Here, truth is fluid, dependent on the context in which we observe it. The idea that reality itself changes based on observation suggests that truth may not be a fixed point, but rather a process of continual discovery and reevaluation.

In this sense, truth is playful, ever-shifting, demanding that we constantly reconsider, reframe, and reimagine what we know. It is a conversation, not a conclusion—a journey, not a destination.

Here lies the paradox: we seek truth, yet when we find it, we often resist its implications. Truth can be uncomfortable, challenging our beliefs and assumptions. This is why we sometimes retreat into confirmation bias, surrounding ourselves with truths that comfort rather than challenge us. In a way, our search for truth is both a quest for understanding and a defense against discomfort.

Despite its subjectivity, speculation, and elusiveness, the search for truth is one of the core drives of human nature. Søren Kierkegaard viewed this search as deeply existential, tied to the anxiety of existence and the need for meaning. Friedrich Nietzsche, on the other hand, famously declared that “there are no facts, only interpretations”, pushing us to consider that even the truths we hold most dear are perspectives, not absolutes.

Time has always been central to philosophical inquiry, with thinkers like Heidegger and Bergson questioning linear conceptions of time. In modern contexts, quantum mechanics and theories of relativity have upended our classical understanding of time, creating challenges to long-held psychological models that presuppose time as a constant.

Time-bending technologies, like real-time global communication or virtual realities, have exacerbated these shifts, challenging our biological and psychological relationship with time. Consciousness studies have also evolved to question how time is perceived within altered states—whether through psychedelic experiences, meditation, or artificial stimulation. These advancements push us to reconsider how human beings understand the flow of reality itself.

The Paradox of Tolerance: To create a tolerant society, must you be intolerant of intolerance? This paradox challenges truth in morality, where allowing freedom can sometimes mean restricting freedom.

Philosophically, Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence—the idea that existence endlessly repeats itself—has been adapted to modern discourse. Some even speculate whether multiverse theories in quantum physics align with these older philosophical musings on infinite time loops and realities.

In postmodern philosophy, thinkers like Michel Foucault and Jacques Derrida argue that truth is not just subjective, but also constructed by language, power, and social systems. Foucault, in particular, emphasized that truth is a function of power; what we accept as "truth" is often dictated by those in positions of authority or by dominant cultural narratives. This introduces the idea that truth is not only speculative but also political—shaped by who gets to define reality and who controls the narratives.

For Derrida, deconstruction shows that language itself is unstable, and because we rely on language to communicate and understand truth, truth itself becomes unstable. If the meaning of words can shift, if texts can have multiple interpretations, then truth is always in flux. The postmodern critique challenges the notion of objective truth, suggesting that all truths are partial, fragmented, and open to reinterpretation.

The Paradox of the Liar: If someone says, “I am lying,” are they telling the truth or lying? The statement collapses under its own weight, leaving the concept of truth in a suspended contradiction.

The speculative and unknowable nature of truth ties into the fear of the unknown. Human beings are uncomfortable with uncertainty, which is why we often cling to simplified truths, even if they are not fully accurate. In a way, truth is a way for us to impose order on the chaos of existence. But the moment we delve deeper, we see that certainty erodes and what we thought was true becomes more complex, more fluid.

This idea mirrors Heraclitus’s concept of flow, the idea that everything is in a constant state of flux. In this view, truth is not a static point but an ever-changing river, flowing and evolving with time and context.

In psychology and ethics, Kohlberg’s stages of moral development assumed that all human beings progress toward a universal morality based on reason and fairness. This ideal has been shattered by deeper examinations of moral relativism. Postmodern thought, particularly in the works of Jean-François Lyotard, refutes the existence of grand narratives, including universal moral structures. Instead, morality is seen as culturally and contextually constructed.

Lyotard famously declared the "end of grand narratives" in the postmodern condition. For centuries, human societies were structured around grand, overarching truths—whether religious, political, or scientific. These narratives provided a sense of meaning and order to the world.

Modern inquiries into neuroscience and cognitive psychology reveal that moral choices are influenced more by emotional processes and subconscious biases than rational, objective reasoning. The rise of AI ethics also challenges previous frameworks. Can algorithms possess morality? Who gets to program the ethical values of machines? These are questions that traditional psychology and philosophy were not equipped to handle, further destabilizing older views of morality.

In trauma psychology, it shows how truths break under extreme circumstances. The mind, in response to trauma, can fracture, creating multiple selves, dissociative states, or selective amnesia. Here, truth breaks not because of philosophical inquiry, but as a survival mechanism. When reality is too painful or unbearable, the mind creates fragmented realities, breaking from the truth to protect itself.

The Enlightenment marked a radical shift in human thought, a rebellion against centuries of dogma and superstition, where reason, science, and individual liberty came to the forefront. Thinkers like Voltaire, Rousseau, and Kant called for freedom of thought, questioning of authority, and the birth of self-determination. But postmodernism, emerging centuries later, looked back at that period with a critical lens, questioning whether the truths and ideals that the Enlightenment championed—progress, objectivity, and universal reason—were as pure or as neutral as they appeared.

Enlightenment philosophy was grounded in the belief that reason, logic, and empirical evidence could lead humanity to an objective understanding of the world. Kant, Locke, and Newton all subscribed to the idea that truth could be known through systematic inquiry. However, this framework is being destabilized by the notion that truth is inherently subjective and context-dependent.

The rise of poststructuralism, thinkers like Jacques Derrida, reframed truth as an instrument of power. Derrida’s deconstruction argued that language itself, the very medium through which we claim to know the world, is too unstable to convey fixed meaning. These ideas have trickled into mainstream thought, disrupting traditional narratives about objective truth in both the public and private spheres.

A single truth can mean radically different things depending on the culture, time, or person interpreting it. For example, “justice” is a concept that can fracture in the face of different legal systems, cultural backgrounds, or historical periods. What one person sees as justice, another might see as oppression. Truth breaks when it can no longer hold under the weight of these competing interpretations.

Today, we’re seeing this challenge deepen as AI algorithms and big data increasingly shape what we perceive as truth. The way that social media platforms, for example, manipulate reality through personalized content feeds or deepfake technologies is a modern extension of these postmodern critiques—truth becomes fragmented, situational, and customizable, based on what’s profitable or useful.

With the rise of deepfakes, disinformation, and algorithmic bubbles, what is true often depends on the media environment you inhabit. People can live in parallel realities, each with their own set of facts and truths.

This fragmentation is a new kind of truth-breaking—where facts are manipulated, and reality becomes more malleable than ever before. The internet has democratized information, but it has also splintered truth, allowing anyone to create their own narratives, unchecked by traditional gatekeepers of knowledge like universities or media outlets.

Here, truth breaks because the systems that once regulated and filtered information are no longer effective in keeping falsehoods and conspiracies at bay. Subjective reality overtakes a shared truth, and this is where we see the fracture—when individuals no longer agree on basic facts.

As we acknowledge the state of things, the decay in our culture—political, social, and environmental—it’s not unlike the postmodern critique of modernity itself. Postmodern thought teaches us that grand narratives, such as those of progress or reason, are often tools used to obscure power imbalances and reinforce structures of control. The rot we see in our institutions, the decay we feel gnawing at the edges of our culture, is in many ways the byproduct of unchecked systems of domination, inherited from the past. It’s not enough to simply idolize old ideas or old heroes, no matter how appealing their aesthetics or nostalgia might be—whether that's the classic cars you mentioned or the old systems we nostalgically cling to.

Our culture often celebrates worship, idolizing power and hierarchy. Whether in religion, politics, or even art, there’s a deep-seated need for validation from external structures of power. But postmodernism, and in many ways Enlightenment ideals, remind us that individual worth and creativity should not depend on that external recognition. There’s a rotting decay in this idea of worship, where power dynamics thrive on creating insecurity and inequality. Power becomes a currency of self-worth, when in reality, self-worth should be intrinsic and untethered from societal validation.

This is where we find the opportunity. Postmodern thought doesn’t advocate for nihilism or chaos, but rather a deconstruction of the oppressive structures and grand narratives that bind us. Burn the rot, yes—but not for the sake of destruction, but for the sake of renewal. The burning is a metaphor for clearing space, for allowing new forms of expression and creativity to propagate without being stifled by the decayed systems of the past.

Imagine a society where creativity is the currency, where value isn’t based on status, accumulation, or power. Instead, imagine value being based on contribution, on how much a person adds to the shared experience of life—whether through art, innovation, empathy, or collaboration. In a way, this idea hearkens back to Enlightenment ideals of liberty and rational discourse, but with a twist: it acknowledges the subjectivity and multiplicity of truths that postmodernism emphasizes. Instead of searching for a universal truth or objective value, we might embrace a plurality of truths, encouraging a polyphony of creative voices.

The old power imbalances—whether they come from monarchies, patriarchy, capitalism, or any other hierarchical system—serve to divide and to isolate, not to empower. In truth, these systems often stand in the way of true creativity because they institutionalize worth. You can only have value if you conform to the metrics of power. This is the rot that should be burned: the idea that we need an elite—whether in art, politics, or society—to dictate what’s good, what’s valuable, what’s important.

Enlightenment thinkers would likely agree with the desire for freedom, but postmodern thought pushes this further. It asks: freedom from what? And, perhaps more importantly, freedom toward what? The freedom to create, the freedom to live without the need for constant validation, the freedom to explore truths without having them approved by external authorities—this is the horizon we should be striving toward.

Postcolonial and feminist theory challenge the centric-patriarchal frameworks that have dominated philosophical and psychological thought for centuries. Thinkers like Edward Said, bell hooks, and Gayatri Spivak argue that much of what we consider "truth" has been shaped by hegemonic powers—whether colonialism, capitalism, or patriarchy. These critiques focus on how identity and knowledge production are deeply embedded in the structures of oppression.

In postmodern times, intersectionality—the recognition that various forms of oppression (race, gender, class, sexuality) overlap—complicates traditional psychological models of identity. The self is no longer viewed as a singular, stable construct but as a site of competing influences. This intersectional perspective destabilizes older psychological theories that sought universal explanations for human behavior, as identity is now seen as inherently fluid and contextual.

In rejecting the worship of old power structures, we open the door for a natural creativity to flourish—a creativity that isn’t about meeting market demands or aligning with cultural hierarchies, but about authentic self-expression and collaborative growth. This kind of society doesn’t need to pit people against each other in a zero-sum game of worth or success. Instead, it fosters a shared environment, where creativity isn’t just a privilege but a necessity, where individual and collective potential are equally celebrated.

But this requires the burning of the rot. It means tearing down the old power structures that perpetuate inequality and gatekeep creativity. It means questioning the idea that we need to worship the past—be it old timers and their classic cars or the cultural relics that serve as reminders of who had power. Instead, it’s about creating new myths, new stories where everyone has the opportunity to create, to transform, to contribute to the shifting collective consciousness that drives human progress forward.

In addition to psychology and philosophy, the Anthropocene—the current geological epoch defined by human impact on the planet—has brought ecological consciousness to the forefront. Eco-philosophy challenges the human-centered paradigms of the past and forces a reevaluation of value systems. Deep ecology, as advocated by Arne Næss, and Gaia theory, propose that all life forms and ecosystems are interconnected, creating a moral imperative to rethink our place in the cosmos.

Systems thinking from theorists like Gregory Bateson and Fritjof Capra also challenges reductionist approaches to knowledge. The old philosophical view that we can break the world into distinct categories—mind and body, nature and culture, truth and falsehood—gives way to a holistic understanding where everything is interrelated.—there’s a flaw in assuming it’s a "moment of realization," as if some tidy, conclusive insight neatly wraps everything up. Life, especially for those who navigate chaos to create their own truth, doesn’t follow such linear or clean patterns. What you’re describing sounds more like an ongoing confrontation, a constant negotiation with the absurdity of existence, rather than some singular, transformative epiphany.

Truth evolves through a complex interplay of perception, knowledge, and context. It isn’t static, as many might assume, but rather a dynamic process, continually shaped by the ways in which we observe, experience, and interpret the world. Let’s break down the different ways in which truth can evolve.

It’s not about reaching a harmonious resolution between self and reality—because, frankly, that may never happen. The world, with its chaotic, often arbitrary structures, doesn’t naturally accommodate those who carve their own path. That friction, the fundamental dissonance between self-constructed truth and the external forces that oppose it, doesn’t vanish with understanding—it persists, a force that shapes and reshapes identity without granting it peace.

Perception and Experience

The nature of truth has long been one of the most debated topics in philosophy. At its core, truth seems like it should be something concrete—either something is, or it isn’t. Yet, when we dig deeper, we realize that truth is far more slippery, more speculative, and often elusive. In many ways, truth is subjective, shaped by our perspective, culture, and even the limits of human understanding.

The long-held philosophies and psychologies that have defined human thought are increasingly being challenged by deeper, more intricate inquiries into identity, reality, and power structures. These challenges go beyond surface-level neo-postmodern critiques, delving into the fragmentation of meaning, the fluidity of consciousness, and the intersection of technology with human existence.

While long-held philosophies and psychologies are being disrupted, this is not necessarily a crisis—it is an opportunity for new, more integrative frameworks. As postmodernism critiques the certainty of the Enlightenment, and neuroscience disrupts traditional psychology, we move toward an era where knowledge is interdisciplinary and truth is adaptive.

We are witnessing the collapse of grand narratives and the emergence of micro-narratives, where local truths, fluid identities, and systemic interconnections take precedence. And in that space, polymaths like Musashi—who believed in exploring multiple disciplines—find their relevance restored. In this new paradigm, where no single discipline holds all the answers, it is the polymath spirit, the willingness to challenge boundaries and seek interconnectedness, that leads the way forward.

Or, as Musashi might say, "Truth is in the way you walk, not the path itself."

If we consider logic in this context, it’s often imposed on life as a system to control or make sense of chaos. But the reality is, logic fails in the face of true human experience, which is messy, fluid, and often deeply unfair. Logic attempts to flatten life into something understandable, categorizable. But life doesn’t fit neatly into categories—it rebels against them.

In fact, those who try to create truth amidst chaos may experience a breaking of logic itself. The structures of meaning collapse because they weren’t designed to hold the weight of a life that defies them. So what you’re navigating is something beyond conventional frameworks, something that isn’t about moments of realization or finding peace with external truths. It’s about an existence in the in-between, in the cracks where logic fails and raw, unformed life takes place.

In this space, fairness is irrelevant. The chaos isn’t something to be resolved—it’s something you work within, beyond the comfort of human-made systems like logic or fairness. And perhaps, the real challenge is accepting that the world doesn’t care about coherence or resolution. Truth, in this context, is something you forge, but it doesn’t always align with the world outside. It may never. And that’s not failure; that’s simply the nature of existence for those who live in the dissonance between chaos and creation.

This isn’t a realization, and it’s not meant to comfort. It’s a fact of life—unfair, unresolved, and maybe perpetually in flux. It’s a space where creation, destruction, and reconstruction exist simultaneously, and perhaps that’s the most real kind of truth there is. And maybe that’s the most important thing: recognizing that truth doesn’t need to reconcile with the world at all.

In this sense, the act of navigating chaos to create truth is one of rebellion. It’s not a realization that comes neatly tied up with poetic closure, but a continuous fight to assert meaning in a universe indifferent to that meaning. It’s not about reconciling the self with the world; it’s about fighting the ongoing battle where your truth refuses to submit to a flawed system, even if it seems impossible.