"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." – Anaïs Nin
I will never escape my own perception—my own intellect.
This body, gifted to me, will die with me.
I can neither fully comprehend nor verify how accurate my philosophy is, because the only tool I’ve used to build it is my own mind. And the mind, as science tells us, is not built for truth—it’s built for survival.
Rationality varies from brain to brain. The mind is not an impartial judge; it’s a biased interpreter, a flawed narrator.
Should I be worried?
Maybe.
But at least I have the privilege to even ask these questions. What about those who can’t?
People who are paralyzed, mentally challenged, or deprived of proper education—those who struggle to form a sentence, not because they lack depth, but because their body or the world around them doesn’t allow expression.
But then, is it really a privilege?
Might it be that they’ve been spared the kind of delirium I’m in?
At least they often have a motive to live—a purpose that works for them.
It might seem absurd to me, but it gives them meaning.
And isn’t that the whole purpose of life—meaning?
Sometimes I wonder:
What if all my ideas are wrong?
(Possibly—I’m still young, still learning.)
But what if the very tool I’m using to seek truth is faulty?
What if we’re not meant to know things as they are—only to live them?
If that’s the truth, then yes—it’s a harsh one.
Because my entire worldview rests on these axioms of reality.
If they collapse, so does my meaning.
And what’s left is a broken mirror reflecting all my flaws back at me.
It feels like a betrayal—by my own self, dressed in pride.
We all feel this to some degree.
It’s why we’re ashamed of our past actions.
That shame exists only because of the contrast between past and present self.
It’s you looking at your old self and thinking, “I didn’t expect that of me.”
Some might say I’m pessimistic.
And they’d be right.
But I still think it’s worth pondering.
In our culture obsessed with personality and self‑acceptance—
Yes, that has its merits; it celebrates your uniqueness.
But it also tells you to accept the ignorance within you.
Maybe that’s why they say:
Ignorance is bliss.
But is it?
A general consensus would likely say no—but let’s give the devil its due. Let’s entertain the idea that, yes, living in ignorance can feel easier. When you aren’t confronted with life’s harsh truths, complex realities, or moral dilemmas, life can seem more manageable. Ignorance can offer a kind of shelter—a way to avoid responsibility, discomfort, and existential doubt.
Especially for someone whose career or lifestyle doesn’t require deep engagement with the world or ideas, ignorance may feel like a viable path. And really, why bother investing in worldly concerns when those who do often suffer or lose anyway?
If we accept that morality is subjective, this adds even more fuel to the fire. When we were children, we were happy precisely because we didn’t understand the world as it really was. Our innocence shielded us from the burdens of knowledge.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves—ignorance is not a monolith. It comes in different forms.
There’s innocent ignorance and willful ignorance.
Innocent ignorance is not knowing because you haven’t yet learned. It’s natural and often harmless—some might even argue it’s not ignorance at all, but rather naïveté.
Willful ignorance, on the other hand, is the conscious choice to avoid knowledge—to reject new perspectives or truths because they might be uncomfortable or inconvenient. This is the kind of ignorance that truly interests me: the deliberate avoidance of reality.
A prime example is astrology.
Astrology and the Barnum Effect
Now, I understand this may offend some, but astrology illustrates not only voluntary but also willful ignorance. We have no solid scientific or psychological proof supporting its claims. For instance, Geoffrey Dean and Ivan Kelly analyzed over 40 studies, 700 astrologers, and more than 1,000 birth charts. Their findings revealed no statistical support for astrology: astrologers’ accuracy in matching charts to profiles never exceeded chance levels. In another large online study, 152 experienced astrologers tried to match personality questionnaires from 12 individuals to their birth charts (from five options). Their success rate averaged about 20%—exactly what random guessing would yield. In short, astrology has no predictive power—yet people continue to believe in and assign value to it. Don’t get me wrong—it’s fun to look up your sign and reflect on your personality or judge others based on what’s written, even if it’s untrue.
So the real question is: Why do people engage in or give value to something demonstrably false?
This is where the Barnum effect comes in. It describes how people accept vague, general personality descriptions as highly accurate for themselves—especially when those descriptions are positive or flattering. Statements like “You value your independence but crave connection” or “You sometimes feel insecure around people, even though others think you’re confident” feel deeply personal even though they apply to almost anyone. Astrology thrives on this: its summaries are broad enough to resonate widely, yet specific enough to feel tailor‑made. People don’t always realize they’re being fed generic insights—they simply feel seen, and that feeling of emotional accuracy outweighs any scientific skepticism.
Now, some might argue I’m ignoring the spiritual aspect of astrology. And I’d be open to that—if I could observe a clear cause‑and‑effect chain at work. But because I haven’t seen any empirical evidence of that in the real world, I struggle to accept it.
Labels
Another example of the same pattern appears in psychological personality labels. The more I read philosophy and psychology, the more I realize how much we define humans like machines—machines expected to function in a particular way. Anything that deviates is seen as a malfunction. Consider the introvert‑extrovert dichotomy: people often self‑diagnose, which brings its own risks. While these are legitimate concepts, they’re often used as identities rather than tools for understanding. We label ourselves, live within those labels, and treat them as fixed truths instead of fluid traits.
I’ve heard people say, “I have social anxiety,” “I have a bad temper,” or “I’m just sensitive”—and those can absolutely be true. But those are attributes, not the totality of who you are. This is where ignorance sneaks back in—not as a lack of knowledge, but as a lens we put on ourselves. We weren’t born with these traits inscribed upon us. These are human constructs—conclusions drawn from observing behavior through social norms. Over time, we categorize patterns into neat definitions: introvert, anxious, overthinker—as if trying to make sense of ourselves.
Slowly, we start seeing ourselves only through those traits. We reduce our entire being to a few comforting labels. And yes, I’ve done this too. But if you can recognize these traits in yourself—if you can say, “I struggle with this,” and mean it—then that recognition itself proves something deeper: you have the consciousness to see it. And that’s a sign of who you really are—not the label, but the one who sees it.
This brings us back to ignorance. So far, I’ve given two different examples:
– How we view the world (astrology)
– How we view ourselves (personality labels)
But are these forms of ignorance okay? Or even beneficial?
They certainly serve as comfort zones. They shield us. They simplify life.
But are they truly beneficial?
I say no.
Yes, ignorance can feel easier. In the case of astrology, it’s not just the absence of knowledge—it’s a psychological mechanism that makes falsehood feel like truth. And in the case of self‑labeling, the story you tell yourself might bring relief. Humans have a deep desire to feel safe in who they are. We cling to beliefs not because they’re true, but because they help us cope. They make us feel secure about the world, about others, and most of all, about ourselves.
But as Jesus said,
“The truth shall set you free.”
Ignorance is less about not knowing and more about choosing to see the world through a theory you’ve placed on top of it. Real understanding comes from witnessing things first—and then building a theory.
And that’s exactly where ignorance begins to fall apart: when it has to be enforced, repeated, and protected, rather than discovered. If your belief only survives because you keep imposing it on reality, then maybe it was never truth—it was just something you wanted to believe.
And that want? It may not even come from you, but from the insecurities within you. As I said earlier, it’s a kind of protection.
Conclusion
You can have your own truth—but you can’t expect that truth to be followed or abided by everyone else. Because as soon as your version of truth contradicts someone else’s reality, your ignorance starts to fall apart. That’s the fragile nature of beliefs built on comfort rather than understanding—it cracks the moment it’s challenged.
But when you remain open to different views—and commit to seeking something closer to the absolute truth, even when it’s difficult—you gain something deeper: security in the real state of affairs. And that kind of security doesn’t need defending. It doesn’t need shouting, arguing, or convincing. It just is. Because real truth doesn’t need your protection—it stands on its own.
“There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.”
— Søren Kierkegaard