Adapted from a chapter of a philosophy non-fiction book i’m currently writing and welcome thoughts
‘This Was Then’, Mike Abrahams, 1986
We are most often enraged not by truths etched in stone but by those truths that hover on the edge of probability; lingering in the grey space of uncertainty within our minds. Consider this: if you are resolved in the belief that you ended a relationship because you no longer loved the person, and someone points out this fact, you’d nod in agreement, heart-warmed by how much they understand you. But if the reason for the breakup remains mute even to yourself, and someone ventures the same claim — that you ended it because you didn’t love them — you are far more likely to deny it, most likely with a passionate rage.
This is because we have the intrinsic need to construct our own judgments, and define the truths of our lives on our own terms. When others leap to conclusions we have not yet reached, it feels like an invasion — not just of privacy, but of intellectual agency. Their confidence in articulating what we ourselves have yet to fully understand strikes a chord of impotence in us. It’s the same irritation that arises when dealing with a “know-it-all” — the ego’s rebellion against any suggestion that another mind might outrun our own, especially when it pertains to the affairs of the human heart. Our egos place immense value on the truths we uncovered for ourselves, even when those truths are objectively unreasonable. The truths we synthesise, flawed as they may be, feel uniquely ours, shaped by the lens of our experiences, reasoning, and biases. Conversely, truths offered by others, no matter how sound, often fail to resonate in the same way.
This attachment to self-formed truths begs a deeper question: Is there such a thing as objective truth? Most would agree that the apple is red, the grass is green, and the sky is blue. But is it truly red, green, and blue? Colour, after all, is merely the brain’s interpretation of light frequencies, a product of perception rather than reality. To someone with colour blindness, the apple may not appear red at all. In such a case, can we say their perception is false, or simply a different reading of the same event? If truth is filtered through perception, is it ever truly objective?
Even socially accepted truths, those bolstered by logical reasoning, could be absolutely false. The individual with a sharp, socially validated logic may convince many to adopt their viewpoint. Their truth becomes dominant, not because it is inherently objective, but because it aligns with prevailing patterns of thought. Yet, it does not make their truth any more real than that of someone whose reasoning diverges from the majority. Again and again, we mistake sound reasoning for truth, a conflation politicians and manipulators exploit with unnerving precision. With eloquence and rhetoric, they craft arguments that resonate deeply, but these arguments are not necessarily intended for truth — they merely intended for power.
Even the supposed bastion of objectivity, mathematics, is not interchangeable with the concept of truth. While mathematical equations yield consistent results within their frameworks, these frameworks themselves are human inventions. We decree that “1 + 1 = 2” because it serves as a reliable tool to decode the natural world, not because the universe itself dictates this rule. Mathematics, for all its elegance, remains a construct — a game of principles we devised to explain as much of nature as possible. This is evidenced in physics, the real-world application of math, with the longstanding discord between general relativity and quantum mechanics. It serves as a stark reminder of the limits of our understanding. These conflicting paradigms, though grounded in rigorous reasoning, highlight the fragmented nature of our grasp on reality.
If we consider truth as something bound to memory, it becomes even more bizarre. Imagine a simple event: you share breakfast with your mother. While this fact may seem objective, the recollections of that breakfast will differ between you. Rarely do two individuals see eye-to-eye on every nuance of a shared moment. Truth, then, becomes not a singular entity but a kaleidoscope of subjective experiences, a patchwork quilt stitched together by the perspectives of those who lived it. This notion is not new. Philosophers, psychologists, and scientists have long pondered the inherently subjective nature of reality. What is baffling, however, is humanity’s enduring tendency to cling to singular viewpoints with unshakable righteousness. Those who hold their perspective as the sole truth often dismiss all others as ignorance, failing to see that their own certainty may be the greatest ignorance of all.
My old man, for all his poetic and philosophical musings, clings to a stubborn view of humanity: It is beyond salvation, and we should all retreat to the mountains, live like hermits, to guard our own intellectual dignity. There is a deep grief in his eyes, every time they wander to the horizon, as though searching for a lost utopia that he convinced to be irretrievably gone. I suppose I subscribed to such view when I was much younger; nodding along to his sorrowful, consciousness-stream-styled monologues, somewhat agreeing but mostly seeking his affection. As I grew more and more out of this little square box of our cottage, I began to challenge him.
Yet, it seems his irritation was immense, quick, and more intertwined with the essence of his being than I expected. As if he created a protective shelter to filter his own mind through this belief, and any invasion could kick his fragile sense of self into a deep existential crisis. Whilst such viewpoint fuelled the poetic melancholy that defines him, I often look at the self-made calamity of his personal life with a mournful ache. And there is always an image of an alternative version of him in my head — a young boy who keeps chasing a flying yellow balloon, with bursting laughter and joy. Her mother whispers: “Look at the sky, my boy, it is so blue”, as she holds him in her arms, soothing him with her hands; and he, oh, he looks ever so hopeful into the sky, looking deeply curious, and alive. So alive.
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