This Might Be Wrong — And That's the Point

My writing often begins at the edge of mystery, working backward — building bridges from the unknown toward what we think we understand. Science moves in the opposite direction: it starts in the known and pushes carefully outward, inch by inch, into uncertainty. Both approaches are valuable. But they are not the same — and mistaking one for the other has consequences.

Here, I have freedom. I can ask “what if?” I can stretch unfalsifiable ideas into neat, curious little packages. But these aren’t facts — they’re thought experiments. Possibilities. Guesses. And it’s important to be honest about that. I don’t always believe the things I write. Not entirely. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I want to. But more than anything, I want to be wrong.

Because being wrong — truly, unmistakably wrong — is beautiful. It means nature has revealed something deeper, something more intricate than what I imagined. And nature always wins. We try to capture it — in art, in physics, in code — but it always stays just ahead. That’s its magic. To be wrong isn’t to fail. It’s to learn. It’s a door swinging open to a truer story. And the thrill lies not in being certain, but in being surprised.

The Detection Dilemma

I’ve written before about the idea of a collective consciousness — that we might be individual nodes tapping into a shared, mysterious signal. It’s a captivating thought, one that blurs the boundaries between self and other. But its not fact. If consciousness is something the brain receives, then — by the laws of physics — it must interact with matter. So where is it?

In our brains, matter is far from inert. Neurons communicate via finely tuned electrochemical gradients, with ions crossing membranes and neurotransmitters binding to receptors. These processes result in minute voltage changes that give rise to thoughts, perceptions, and decisions. If an external signal influences this intricate system, it would, in principle, interact with the biological machinery. Considering that consciousness is responsible for our entire subjective experience, my instinct is to assume that this interaction should be strong and consistent. In other words, it should be — at least in principle — detectable.

That’s the scientific expectation. When something affects the physical world, we can usually see its fingerprints — not always directly, but through its consequences. That’s how we’ve identified other elusive phenomena. Neutrinos — nearly massless and barely interactive — are detected via faint flashes of Cherenkov radiation. Gravitational waves — ripples in spacetime from distant cosmic collisions — are measured through distortions smaller than a proton. Even dark matter, though unseen, makes its properties known through its gravitational influence on galaxies. In all these cases, we’ve found fingerprints — subtle, indirect, but undeniable. We built detectors like Super-Kamiokande, LIGO, and LUX-ZEPLIN, and in return, we found evidence.

But when we turn to collective consciousness the pattern breaks. Such a model would require a new kind of interaction. It might be subtle, sure, but it would still need to affect matter: nudging a neuron to fire, changing a potential, biasing a network’s outcome. And yet, we’ve detected no such signature. No anomalous force, no deviations in neural behaviour that suggest a hidden influence.

This doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. It just means we haven’t seen it — yet. Perhaps consciousness interacts in a way we haven’t conceived. Maybe it exists in a dimension or form we lack the tools — or even the language — to perceive. But science has one guiding principle: if something shapes the physical world, we should, at some point, be able to measure its effect. And so far, consciousness hasn’t left a measurable footprint.

The Discipline of Doubt

None of this kills the idea of collective consciousness. It just means that — scientifically — we have no evidence for it. And that distinction matters. It’s tempting to treat compelling ideas as truth. To hear something that feels right and adopt it. Especially when it’s elegant. When it offers comfort, or a sense of meaning. But the universe doesn’t bend to what feels intuitive. And meaning is not evidence.

This is why I’m careful — or at least I try to be — with the way I write. You’ll see me overusing words like “maybe”, “what if”, “perhaps”. That’s intentional. Because while I love exploring these ideas, I know I’m building speculative bridges, not uncovering truths. They’re thought experiments, not conclusions. Guesses, not discoveries.

And that’s okay. It’s okay to play in the unknown. It’s okay to wonder. What matters is recognizing when we’re doing that — and not mistaking it for truth. Because the truth is, we don’t know what consciousness is. We don’t know how it arises, or where it begins, we don’t even know if it’s an emergent property of matter or something more fundamental. All current theories — whether they come from physics, neuroscience, or philosophy — still fall short. Some describe how consciousness behaves. None fully explain what it is.

Belief, Rigidity, and the Cost of Knowing

This, for me, is where things get tricky — not with belief itself, but with the certainty that often comes with it. There’s nothing wrong with working theories or intuitive frameworks; I have them too. But they rest on assumptions I can’t prove, and I try not to confuse a compelling idea with the truth. That’s where I think many worldviews — especially those held tightly, like religion — can becoming rigid.

To be clear, I’m not claiming to understand the psychological imprint of religious belief formed in childhood. If you’ve been told since you were young that a certain story is true — not as metaphor, but as reality — that shapes everything. I don’t want to diminish that. What I do want to challenge is the sense of certainty that often follows it. The idea that we know.

Because we don’t even know whether the universe is finite or infinite. We don’t know if it had a beginning. Yes, the Big Bang is supported by strong evidence — redshift, the cosmic microwave background radiation, the relative abundance of elements. We've, quite literally, captured the afterglow using satellites like COBE and WMAP. But we still don’t know what came before, or whether “before” even makes sense in this context.

So, if you hold the idea of a creator, or an eternal consciousness — that’s valid. But it's still a framework built on faith, not empirical proof. Science hasn’t disproven these ideas, but it hasn’t confirm them either. And that distinction matters. So, here’s a question — not as a challenge, but as an invitation:

If we discovered, beyond doubt, that the universe had no beginning — that it simply always existed — could your worldview adapt? Could your framework evolve to make space for that truth? Or would you need to reject it because it contradicts something you've long held sacred?

This, to me, is the real risk: not in having a model of the world, but in holding it so tightly that discovery feels like a threat instead of an expansion.

When the Story Changes

None of this is meant to kill curiosity. If anything, it’s the opposite. I’ll keep writing about consciousness. I’ll keep speculating. I’ll keep asking the questions I know I can’t answer, playing in the space of what we don’t yet understand. Because that’s where wonder lives — just beyond the edges of certainty. But I won’t pretend to know what I don’t. And I hope my readers won’t either.

Because there’s a quiet, underrated joy in being wrong. It means something more real just came into view. Something more intricate, more beautiful than the story you were telling. And when that happens, you get to let go of the old scaffolding. You get to rebuild. Not from scratch — but from something sturdier, truer.

To think is not to cling. It’s to pivot, to follow evidence wherever it leads, even if that trail runs straight through the heart of what you once believed.

So, yes — maybe consciousness is shared. I still love that idea. But I love the truth more. Whatever it turns out to be — however strange, unexpected, or ordinary — it will always be more beautiful than anything we could’ve invented.

That’s why I write.
That’s why I wonder.
That’s why I hope that I’m wrong.