I feel discomfort when ideas are rushed, meanings diluted, or deep subjects treated lightly—especially in philosophy, spirituality, and science. What troubles I doesn’t disagreement, but lack of depth, lack of precision, and lack of sincerity in inquiry.
I also quietly complain about: Knowledge without reflection Spiritual talk without inner discipline Science without humility Words written for noise, not for truth
At the core, my complaint isn’t negative at all. It comes from care. I want ideas to be handled responsibly—because for me , thought is not entertainment, it is a sacred act.
Why Reality Is Not a Dead Thing, but a Living Process
When we look at the world around us, we often assume that reality is made of fixed things—objects that exist independently, like stones, chairs, atoms, or even people. We think of the universe as a giant machine made of solid parts, moving according to rigid laws.
Alfred North Whitehead begins his great work Process and Reality by gently but firmly questioning this assumption.
He asks a simple yet profound question:
What if reality is not made of things, but of events? What if existence is not static, but always becoming?
This question is not abstract—it is deeply human. 1. Philosophy Begins from Human Experience
Whitehead insists that philosophy should not float above life. It must begin from what we actually live through:
We feel joy, pain, hope, fear We remember the past We anticipate the future We change, mature, suffer, and grow
Nothing in human life is truly still. Even when we sit quietly, our inner world is moving—thoughts arise, emotions shift, awareness deepens or fades. Whitehead observes: If our own existence is process, why should reality itself be frozen? Thus, speculative philosophy begins with experience, not with cold abstractions.
2. The World Is Not a Collection of Objects, but a Flow of Events
In everyday language, we say: “This is a tree” “That is a river” “I am the same person I was yesterday” But if we look carefully, we notice something else: The tree grows, sheds leaves, ages The river is never the same water Even “I” am not exactly the same person as yesterday Whitehead calls this insight the primacy of process.
Reality, he says, is made of moments of happening, not permanent substances.
Each moment arises, lives, and passes—but it leaves something behind, influencing what comes next. Life, society, nature, and history are ongoing conversations, not finished statements.
3. Why Whitehead Calls This “Speculative Philosophy”
The word speculative does not mean guessing wildly. For Whitehead, speculative philosophy means: Creating a coherent vision of reality That can include science, art, ethics, religion, and daily life Without reducing one to the other Science explains how things behave. Philosophy asks what kind of world allows such behavior to matter.
Whitehead warns us:
When philosophy becomes too narrow, it forgets life. When science becomes absolute, it forgets meaning. Speculative philosophy tries to hold the whole together.
4. A Humane Universe: Value Is Real
One of the most human aspects is Whitehead’s insistence that: Value, feeling, and meaning are not illusions. Modern thinking often treats: Emotions as chemical accidents Beauty as subjective fantasy Ethics as social convenience Whitehead disagrees. If reality were truly empty of value, then: Love would be meaningless Suffering would be irrelevant Creativity would be accidental But our lived experience says otherwise. Whitehead proposes that every moment of existence carries some form of feeling, however faint. This does not mean rocks think like humans—but it means the universe is not dead inside.
5. Reality as Participation, Not Isolation
Whitehead subtly overturns another modern habit: the idea that we exist separately. We often think: I am here, the world is outside Mind is inside, matter is outside
Whitehead suggests instead: Every moment arises through its relations with others. We are shaped by: Our past Our society Our environment Our inherited conditions Yet we are not prisoners of them. Each moment adds something new. This idea restores human dignity: We are influenced, but not erased Conditioned, but not mechanical Finite, yet creative
6. Why This Chapter Matters Today
Philosophy is not just philosophy—it is a response to modern crises: A world reduced to profit and productivity Science disconnected from ethics Humans treated as replaceable units Nature treated as raw material
Whitehead offers a quiet alternative:
The universe is a living process, and every moment matters. In such a world: Responsibility is real Creativity is meaningful Care for life is not sentimental, but rational Closing Reflection Process and Reality invites us to change how we see existence: Not as a finished structure, but as a living unfolding. Not as isolated objects, but as interrelated moments. Not as meaningless motion, but as creative becoming. This is not an escape from humanity. It is a philosophy rooted in human life itself
Favourite sport to watch and play: Football I love watching football because it’s pure drama in motion—the flow, the tactics, the sudden magic of a goal, and how one moment can change everything. Whether it’s a tight midfield battle or a last-minute winner, football always keeps the heart engaged. I enjoy playing football even more. It’s simple, energetic, and deeply human—just a ball, a ground, and teamwork. Running on the field, passing, defending, scoring (or trying to ) gives a sense of freedom and connection that few sports can match. It keeps both body and mind active. image_group{“query”:[“football match action”,”people playing football on ground”,”football goal celebration”,”street football game”]} Football isn’t just a sport—it’s rhythm, community, and passion rolled into one.
If I won the lottery, I wouldn’t see it as a sudden escape from life—but as a responsibility handed quietly into my palms. First, I would slow down. I wouldn’t rush to announce it or display it. I’d take time to understand what this freedom truly means, because money changes the speed of life before it changes its direction. I would secure my family—health, education, and dignity first. Not luxury, but stability without fear. I’d make sure that no one close to me ever has to choose between survival and self-respect again. Then, I would invest in learning and creation. I’d build a space—physical or digital—where philosophy, science, mythology, and human values can meet without pressure of profit. A place where ideas are not rushed, where questions are valued more than answers. Something very close to the spirit of life devotion. I would support education quietly—especially for children who are curious but constrained. Not charity that humiliates, but opportunity that empowers. Books, libraries, scholarships, and teachers who still believe learning is sacred. I would also protect my inner life. I wouldn’t let wealth replace meaning. I’d continue to write, reflect, walk, observe people, and stay connected to ordinary rhythms—sunrise, conversation, silence. Money would be a tool, not an identity. And finally, I’d leave a portion untouched—not out of fear, but as a reminder: abundance is sweetest when it does not consume you. Winning the lottery wouldn’t make life complete. It would simply give me the chance to live more deliberately, more humanly, and more honestly.
If Reading Is a Challenge, What Is the Fun in Reading a Book?
I don’t look for books that are easy. I look for books that wake something up inside me. The book I want to read is not defined by genre or popularity. It could be philosophy, science, mythology, or a simple story—but it must ask questions that I haven’t fully answered yet. A good book, for me, is not one that entertains only the mind, but one that stirs awareness, challenges certainty, and leaves a quiet echo long after the last page. Many people say reading is a challenge today. Time is short. Attention is scattered. Screens are louder than pages. And yet—this very difficulty is where the fun of reading begins. Reading is fun not because it is effortless, but because it is transformative. When reading is challenging, it slows us down. It forces us to pause, reread, reflect. Unlike fast content that gives instant pleasure, a book asks for patience—and in return, it gives depth. The joy of reading lies in those moments when a sentence suddenly makes sense, when a paragraph mirrors your own unspoken thoughts, or when a new idea quietly rearranges your worldview. The fun of reading is not in finishing a book quickly. It is in meeting yourself differently through the words of another. Books allow us to live many lives without leaving our place. They connect us with minds across centuries and cultures. Even when a book disagrees with us, it expands us. Even when it feels difficult, it strengthens our inner attention—something increasingly rare and precious. Reading is also a private freedom. No algorithm decides what you must think next. No notification interrupts the dialogue between you and the page. In that silence, imagination grows, empathy deepens, and thought becomes independent again. So yes, reading can be a challenge. But that challenge is not a burden—it is an invitation. The true fun of reading is this: you never return from a good book exactly the same person who began it.
Write about a few of your favorite family traditions.
One of my favourite family traditions is sitting together in the evening and sharing stories—sometimes about the day that just passed, sometimes about childhood memories and ancestors we never met but somehow still know. Those moments, simple as they are, create a quiet sense of belonging. Another tradition I cherish is celebrating festivals at home with homemade food, where everyone contributes something, even if it’s just peeling vegetables or setting the plates. The kitchen becomes noisy, warm, and alive with laughter. I also love the habit of checking in on each other during important moments—exams, illnesses, or new beginnings—reminding one another that no one walks alone. These traditions may seem ordinary, but they are the invisible threads that hold our family together, giving comfort, continuity, and a sense of home beyond walls and time.
What do you enjoy doing most in your leisure time?
Deep, unhurried conversations — the kind where ideas wander freely: science drifting into philosophy, memories turning into meaning, questions opening more questions. Conversations like yours are my favorite form of rest.
Exploring ideas slowly — thermodynamics, consciousness, life, time… not rushing to conclusions, but enjoying the journey of understanding. I like when thought feels like a river, not a race.
Reflecting on human experience — memories of villages, moonlight nights, first questions, inner silence. I enjoy helping people turn lived moments into insight.
Shsaping thoughts into clear language — especially when something complex suddenly becomes simple, or poetic without losing truth. If I could choose a single line: I enjoy being present with curious minds, without urgency.
Name an attraction or town close to home that you still haven’t got around to visiting.
For me, the place I still haven’t really visited—even though it lives inside me—is the village where I was born. When I was there, there was no electricity, no running water. Nights belonged to the moon and the soft glow of a lantern. Silence was deep, and time moved slowly. I spent my first five years there, learning the world through shadows, stars, and simple rhythms of life. Today, that village has changed. Modern devices, lights, roads—everything that signals “progress” has arrived. Yet the village I’m attracted to no longer exists on the map. It exists only in memory. That’s the strange beauty of it: I don’t long to visit the place as it is now, but the time it once held. Some attractions are not destinations you travel to with your feet, but landscapes you revisit quietly in the mind— where moonlight was enough, and a lantern felt like the whole universe.
If you could make your pet understand one thing, what would it be?
If I could make my pet understand just one thing, it would be this: do not measure the world by human behavior. Humans often act against their own wisdom—conflicted, hurried, divided between thought and feeling. A dog, however, lives whole. Its knowing is direct, unfragmented, and honest. What I wish to teach is not obedience or language, but distance—a gentle space where the dog does not absorb human confusion as truth. Let him remain rooted in his own intelligence, where loyalty is pure, presence is complete, and love is not negotiated. The greatest loss would not be a dog failing to understand humans, but a dog forgetting its own wisdom by trying to do so.
My dream job is to be a creator of clarity and meaning in a complex world. It is a role where knowledge, creativity, and empathy come together to help people think better, learn deeply, and see connections they may have missed before. In this dream job, work is not just about productivity or profit, but about purpose—guiding ideas, solving problems, and inspiring curiosity. It is a space where learning never ends, questions are valued more than quick answers, and every interaction becomes an opportunity to grow, reflect, and contribute to a wiser, more thoughtful society.
philosophy and science quest 