“I think, therefore I am” – René Descartes
Until recently, I never truly imagined the universe as something so vast, with billions of galaxies, each containing billions of stars, many of which have their own solar systems. The possibility of countless worlds, perhaps some capable of nurturing life, reshaped my perception of reality. I was introduced to this cosmic immensity through the works of Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson, both of whom opened my eyes to the awe and humility that come with understanding our place in the cosmos. Even before that, I had an intuitive sense that everything is somehow interconnected, bound by a subtle, underlying thread of consciousness. Having been influenced by several spiritual masters, I often find myself lost in contemplation about the nature of existence. Interestingly, many scientists, too, acknowledge the mystical dimension of the universe, even if they describe it differently.
Over time, I was drawn to the pantheistic view of reality, one that resonated with both reason and reverence. Much like Spinoza’s God, it refuses to place the creator outside creation. Existence, in this view, is self-sufficient; it needs no external architect. The whole is divine, and everything within it partakes in that divinity. This perspective seems to resolve the endless loop of who created the creator. Yet, it also leaves open the possibility that deeper, perhaps metaphysical, laws govern the universe, laws that might someday explain phenomena we currently call “spiritual” or “mystical.” If we were ever to discover that such metaphysical laws truly exist, it might suggest, though not prove, that reality functions like a vast, programmed design. Sometimes I imagine the universe as an intricate simulation, where distant galaxies and unreachably far places resemble the “out-of-bounds” regions of an open-world massive multiplayer online video game. For instance, our neighboring galaxy Andromeda lies so far away that, given the limits of the speed of light, it is practically unreachable. It’s as if nature itself has placed invisible boundaries around our explorations.
I feel a strange relief when I think of everything as a construct of mind, even the concept of a creator. When there is no fear of punishment, no expectation of afterlife or reincarnation, I find greater ease in living. I still try to act with a mature conscience, not out of fear, but from a quiet sense of integrity. It frees me from the pressure of perfection. Though, I do feel remorse for wrong actions or unkind thoughts, they leave a weight I cannot ignore. Lately, I’ve been wrestling with the problem of evil and the delicate tension between determinism and free will. Looking back, I find it hard to believe that events in my life unfolded on their own. Many were painful, and their echoes still linger. Yet, I also sense that what’s ahead might somehow turn out for good, even if I cannot see how.
As Steve Jobs once said, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backward.” The more I reflect, the more I feel that both free will and determinism hold truth in different ways. Perhaps free will is an illusion, created so that we may experience life as our own unfolding story. Or perhaps, within a largely predetermined cosmos, we are given a small but meaningful space to choose how we dance. No one truly knows the universe’s secrets. What’s stranger is that these secrets seem deliberately hidden from us, as though to keep the game interesting, to ensure we keep searching. No one knows. Sometimes I even wonder if I am the only one truly existing, if the world around me is merely an intricate illusion formed by light, reflection, and perception. It could be that there are infinite universes, each branching endlessly, each holding different versions of reality. Again, no one knows.
The Sufi mystic Rumi once said, “Before you were born, God showed you your entire life, from beginning to end, and you chose to live it because you found something worth living for.” This thought gives me a quiet comfort. It suggests that we chose this life, with all its pain and joy, for reasons only our souls can remember. Imagination, indeed, has no bounds. As Pablo Picasso said, “Everything you can imagine is real.” I’ve personally known a few people who claim to communicate with unseen beings, angels or spirits, through the repetition of sacred verses or hymns passed down by their gurus. While I remain skeptical of such acts, I cannot ignore the curious accuracy of some of their intuitions. Whether coincidence or something deeper, these experiences remind me that reality might contain more layers than the human mind can presently perceive. Two years ago, I read Paramhansa Yogananda’s “Autobiography of a Yogi”. The experiences described there are astonishing, not necessarily because I believe them all, but because they invite an expansion of thought. They remind me that openness is more powerful than blind belief or dismissal.
Astrology and numerology fall into a similar category for me. I don’t personally practice them, yet I’m fascinated by how our ancestors developed these systems as early attempts to understand the cosmos. They may not qualify as sciences by modern standards, but they were born from the same curiosity that drives science today, the yearning to comprehend the unknown. I don’t criticize them for their imperfections; after all, they worked with what little they had, and their effort was profoundly human. The universe, or perhaps the multiverse, is almost impossible for any single mind to fully grasp. Still, mystics insist that the “self” is not separate from it but pervades it entirely. The Hindus and Sufis both reached inward and found that there is only That One, the all-pervading, transcendental essence behind everything. The Greeks, too, sought the same understanding through reason. Socrates’ timeless teaching, “Know thyself,” is a call to turn inward and recognize the source from which everything emerges. Rajneesh Osho once said, “I do not believe in believing. My approach is to know.” This beautifully captures the essence of inquiry, a willingness to challenge one’s own assumptions and embrace the unknown. The rise of science in Europe, in many ways, was built upon this humility, the courage to say, “We don’t know.”
Admitting ignorance is not weakness; it’s the sign of wisdom.
Notice – This article is a chapter from Glimpses of My Worldview (2025). It is being republished here on my blog as part of a complete serialization of the work.