Our physical senses form the foundation of how we construct knowledge about the world and ourselves. All the information we gather through these senses is processed through various cognitive functions—such as naming, classification, categorization, interpretation, and contextualization—and stored as memory. It is through this cognitive processing that raw sensory input gains meaning, allowing us to build a coherent and continuous mental image of our world.
A red rose, a tall tree, or a smiling child are all perceived and remembered as meaningful, coherent mental images—images that are not only coherent but also, inevitably, distorted.
The very act of image-making involves a distortion of reality as it is.
How we categorize a sensory stimulus—as positive or negative, pleasurable or painful—shapes the image we construct. For instance, a colleague who always smiles and greets us may seem nicer than one who rarely does, even if there is no objective reason for such a judgment. Similarly, an unpleasant smell in someone’s home might lead us to form unwarranted conclusions about them. The pitch and tone of a person’s voice, their manner of dress, and how they carry themselves all contribute to the image we build of them.
These mental images, in turn, influence how we perceive through our senses. People toward whom we already have a favourable mental image may appear more pleasant to our senses, regardless of how they actually appear, talk or behave or how their home smells.
The images formed through our experiences shape our sensory perceptions—and our sensory perceptions, in turn, shape those images. They exist in a mutually reinforcing cycle.
Our world, then—our psychological world—is a kind of bubble created by this interaction between the senses and mental images. It is the bubble that represents our ideas of what should be, constantly in conflict with reality as it is.
And this conflict between what should be and what is lies at the root of all suffering.
How does this bubble sustain itself?
It appears that the moment we perceive something, an internal chatter—often unnoticed—takes over the process of meaning-making. For instance, my boss gives me critical feedback, and immediately an inner voice arises, insisting that the boss has a personal vendetta against me—which may or may not be true. Whatever my boss says is now filtered and distorted to fit my inner narrative.
What is this inner chatter trying to achieve? It seems to act as a defense mechanism, protecting the image I hold of myself—perhaps that of an intelligent and hard-working employee. Conversely, if my self-image is rooted in feelings of inadequacy or inferiority, the internal chatter may agree with and even justify my boss’s criticism.
The inner chatter, then, is a mechanism through which our mental images distort sensory data in order to preserve themselves.
As long as this internal chatter continues, it keeps us trapped within its bubble of distortions and deceptions. At some point in our development, we internalize this process so deeply that we stop noticing it altogether. It becomes an unobserved, autonomous function—creating our thoughts, beliefs, and actions. It becomes the source of both our pain and our pleasure. And all the while, we believe that we are consciously in charge of our thoughts and choices, unaware of this hidden process quietly operating in the background.
Is there a way out of this bubble?
There must be—or else we are doomed to remain caught in it forever. The strength of this process of distortion lies in its ability to remain unseen. But what happens when we begin to notice it? What happens when we pay attention—truly pay attention—to the information our senses convey?
Paying attention to our senses also means paying attention to the internal chatter that arises in response. It means neither accepting nor rejecting what the chatter says, but simply watching it—remaining in a space of unknowing.
If one can do that, one begins to uncover one’s hidden patterns and beliefs—the very templates of living that define one’s sense of self. These templates form the field of abstractions that constitute the structure of identity.
The internal chatter grows most intense when an external event challenges our mental image. The greater the challenge, the stronger the internal response. For example, a deeply religious person may react with extreme defensiveness, even violence, when their faith is questioned.
But what happens if one turns inward and listens to those strong inner arguments without getting lost in them?
The point is not to decide who or what is right. The point is to uncover one’s own patterns—the recurring, conditioned responses that drive behavior, the cycles of fear and desire that keep us bound.
As these patterns begin to unravel, one naturally starts to question who—or what—is truly in charge of one’s life, for these patterns seem largely autonomous.
If one pays close attention to one’s senses, it becomes possible to perceive truth directly, without relying solely on mental reasoning. The more attentively one listens, watches, or feels, the more one allows words, actions, and sensations to reveal their own truth.
This requires staying present with the confusion or fear that such awareness may bring. It means not rushing toward clarity, but learning to remain in the state of not knowing.
It is in this very zone of not knowing that one can glimpse the structure of the self. To live in this zone of unknowing is to live with awareness.
To live within this awareness is to begin dissolving the boundary between the observer and the observed, between the perceiver and the perceived. The senses no longer merely serve the mind’s projections; they become direct pathways to what is. The rose, the tree, the child’s smile — they are seen not through the filters of memory and judgment, but as they are, fresh and alive in each moment.
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