Normality: A Choice, a Form of Conditioning… or a State of Collective Slumber?
Anastasia Beschi
The Choice of Normality Is Rarely a Conscious One
At first glance, normality appears to result from personal choice. We believe that we have freely chosen a lifestyle, behaviour or way of thinking because it seems “obvious”, “healthy” or “logical”.
Yet what we call a “choice” is often a silent adherence to a pre-existing model inherited from our environment and culture—and, above all, validated by the gaze of others.
From childhood, we are exposed to a collection of verbal, emotional and physical codes that define the boundaries of what is considered “normal”. These codes are not neutral. They are transmitted through education, collective narratives, media and, most importantly, the subtle everyday reactions of those around us.
A smile of approval, a raised eyebrow, a heavy silence—each is a weak signal teaching us what is “acceptable” and what is “strange”. Children learn very early that departing from the norm may lead to exclusion. They adjust and conform, not necessarily through conviction, but through an instinct for social survival.
This mechanism continues into adulthood, although it becomes more insidious. We continue to “choose” predetermined paths—careers, relationships and behaviours—without recognising how limited our room for manoeuvre may be.
The norm functions like an invisible track, while deviation often produces a diffuse unease or existential discomfort. Why? Because the brain associates conformity with safety. To move away from the norm is to confront uncertainty, emptiness and judgement.
In other words: danger.
Yet the very idea of normality varies from one period, country and social group to another. What we consider healthy, stable or desirable today might have appeared absurd or even dangerous in another context.
Nevertheless, this historical relativity is not enough to dispel the illusion of self-evidence. That illusion is not rational; it is sensory, embedded within the body, language and our way of seeing.
This is where the Psychooptic perspective becomes relevant. If perception is already filtered through visual and emotional frameworks instilled from childhood, then our “choices” may be little more than preprogrammed responses to encoded stimuli.
We believe we are deciding… but we are reacting.
We believe we are free… but we are operating within a system of perceptual markers we have never questioned.
Becoming aware of these automatisms initiates a gentle, non-violent yet lucid process of disidentification. The aim is not to reject normality as a matter of principle, but to observe it as something external: fluid, cultural and conditioned.
And to ask ourselves, at every moment: What I am about to do, say or feel—is it truly my choice? Or is it a learned reflex?
When sustained with compassion, this doubt becomes an entry point into a more flexible and nuanced form of perception. It opens an inner space in which we
At first glance, normality appears to result from personal choice. We believe that we have freely chosen a lifestyle, behaviour or way of thinking because it seems “obvious”, “healthy” or “logical”.
Yet what we call a “choice” is often a silent adherence to a pre-existing model inherited from our environment and culture—and, above all, validated by the gaze of others.
From childhood, we are exposed to a collection of verbal, emotional and physical codes that define the boundaries of what is considered “normal”. These codes are not neutral. They are transmitted through education, collective narratives, media and, most importantly, the subtle everyday reactions of those around us.
A smile of approval, a raised eyebrow, a heavy silence—each is a weak signal teaching us what is “acceptable” and what is “strange”. Children learn very early that departing from the norm may lead to exclusion. They adjust and conform, not necessarily through conviction, but through an instinct for social survival.
This mechanism continues into adulthood, although it becomes more insidious. We continue to “choose” predetermined paths—careers, relationships and behaviours—without recognising how limited our room for manoeuvre may be.
The norm functions like an invisible track, while deviation often produces a diffuse unease or existential discomfort. Why? Because the brain associates conformity with safety. To move away from the norm is to confront uncertainty, emptiness and judgement.
In other words: danger.
Yet the very idea of normality varies from one period, country and social group to another. What we consider healthy, stable or desirable today might have appeared absurd or even dangerous in another context.
Nevertheless, this historical relativity is not enough to dispel the illusion of self-evidence. That illusion is not rational; it is sensory, embedded within the body, language and our way of seeing.
This is where the Psychooptic perspective becomes relevant. If perception is already filtered through visual and emotional frameworks instilled from childhood, then our “choices” may be little more than preprogrammed responses to encoded stimuli.
We believe we are deciding… but we are reacting.
We believe we are free… but we are operating within a system of perceptual markers we have never questioned.
Becoming aware of these automatisms initiates a gentle, non-violent yet lucid process of disidentification. The aim is not to reject normality as a matter of principle, but to observe it as something external: fluid, cultural and conditioned.
And to ask ourselves, at every moment: What I am about to do, say or feel—is it truly my choice? Or is it a learned reflex?
When sustained with compassion, this doubt becomes an entry point into a more flexible and nuanced form of perception. It opens an inner space in which we
What We Call “Natural” Is Often Simply a Collective Habit
It is striking how often what we regard as “natural” is little more than cultural mimicry rendered invisible. We believe that we act spontaneously, think freely and feel authentically. Yet our gestures, reflexes and even emotions have often been absorbed unconsciously through the gaze of others.
The individual is not born into a vacuum. From the outset, we are immersed in a collective perceptual matrix—a field of codes, gestures, expressions, taboos and subtle sanctions that gradually form a version of normality experienced as natural.
This perception of the “natural” is precisely what makes social obedience so effective. When a norm no longer appears as an external rule but as an inner certainty, it becomes almost impossible to question. Conformity disguises itself as freedom.
We are not following a rule—we are “just like that”. We are not playing a role—we are “following our instincts”.
But which instincts?
Those that society has praised, rewarded and reinforced since childhood? Those that were punished least and applauded most? Or those we learned to conceal because they were considered too strange, too intense or too true?
The influence of the majority plays a fundamental role. The more frequently a behaviour is repeated, made visible and confirmed by the group, the more it acquires an aura of truth. The fact that most people follow it appears to validate its legitimacy.
This is a social halo effect: what is shared is assumed to be good, and what is repeated is assumed to be right. A practice, emotion, way of speaking or manner of moving—even when entirely artificial—comes to be perceived as natural once it is collectively imitated.
This applies at every level: from gender roles to facial expressions, from rhythms of life to romantic ideals, from socially valued careers to forms of desire.
The body itself is often shaped by the group’s implicit expectations: smiling at the appropriate moment, displaying enthusiasm at the correct intensity, avoiding silence or ambiguity. Together, these behaviours form the invisible mechanics of appearing “normal”.
Even the slightest deviation may provoke rejection—and it is the anticipation of that rejection that compels us to correct ourselves without even realising it.
One of our most powerful illusions is therefore the belief that what we experience is “natural” simply because it feels familiar, fluid and spontaneous. Yet this familiarity is the result of prolonged conditioning.
The collective imprints its habits upon our nervous system, emotions and language until we can no longer distinguish what comes from within us from what has been absorbed from others.
This is precisely where Psychooptic introduces a reversal of perspective. Rather than asking what is “true” or “false” in our behaviour, it invites us to examine *how* that behaviour was formed.
Through which visual, auditory, linguistic and emotional filters have we constructed our relationship with the world? And, more importantly, how many of those filters remain active without our awareness?
This perceptual vigilance is far from an abstract intellectual exercise. It lies at the very heart of inner freedom. If a code cannot be deactivated while it remains invisible, then the first step towards autonomy is not to oppose the collective directly, but to recognise its traces within ourselves.
Normality, in this sense, is not merely a question of external conformity. It operates from within, like an invisible imprint.
And the older that imprint becomes, the more convincingly it disguises itself as self-evidence.
The individual is not born into a vacuum. From the outset, we are immersed in a collective perceptual matrix—a field of codes, gestures, expressions, taboos and subtle sanctions that gradually form a version of normality experienced as natural.
This perception of the “natural” is precisely what makes social obedience so effective. When a norm no longer appears as an external rule but as an inner certainty, it becomes almost impossible to question. Conformity disguises itself as freedom.
We are not following a rule—we are “just like that”. We are not playing a role—we are “following our instincts”.
But which instincts?
Those that society has praised, rewarded and reinforced since childhood? Those that were punished least and applauded most? Or those we learned to conceal because they were considered too strange, too intense or too true?
The influence of the majority plays a fundamental role. The more frequently a behaviour is repeated, made visible and confirmed by the group, the more it acquires an aura of truth. The fact that most people follow it appears to validate its legitimacy.
This is a social halo effect: what is shared is assumed to be good, and what is repeated is assumed to be right. A practice, emotion, way of speaking or manner of moving—even when entirely artificial—comes to be perceived as natural once it is collectively imitated.
This applies at every level: from gender roles to facial expressions, from rhythms of life to romantic ideals, from socially valued careers to forms of desire.
The body itself is often shaped by the group’s implicit expectations: smiling at the appropriate moment, displaying enthusiasm at the correct intensity, avoiding silence or ambiguity. Together, these behaviours form the invisible mechanics of appearing “normal”.
Even the slightest deviation may provoke rejection—and it is the anticipation of that rejection that compels us to correct ourselves without even realising it.
One of our most powerful illusions is therefore the belief that what we experience is “natural” simply because it feels familiar, fluid and spontaneous. Yet this familiarity is the result of prolonged conditioning.
The collective imprints its habits upon our nervous system, emotions and language until we can no longer distinguish what comes from within us from what has been absorbed from others.
This is precisely where Psychooptic introduces a reversal of perspective. Rather than asking what is “true” or “false” in our behaviour, it invites us to examine *how* that behaviour was formed.
Through which visual, auditory, linguistic and emotional filters have we constructed our relationship with the world? And, more importantly, how many of those filters remain active without our awareness?
This perceptual vigilance is far from an abstract intellectual exercise. It lies at the very heart of inner freedom. If a code cannot be deactivated while it remains invisible, then the first step towards autonomy is not to oppose the collective directly, but to recognise its traces within ourselves.
Normality, in this sense, is not merely a question of external conformity. It operates from within, like an invisible imprint.
And the older that imprint becomes, the more convincingly it disguises itself as self-evidence.
Normality Acts as a Collective Anaesthetic
It is not enough to say that normality is learned in order to understand its true power. What makes the norm so powerful is not merely that it is transmitted, but that it induces sleep. It operates less like an explicit rule than a gentle sedative, a veil drawn across perception. Normality does not prohibit—it attenuates. It does not shout—it whispers. It no longer punishes—it deactivates wakefulness.
Every society, historical period and social group cultivates its own version of normality. Yet in every case, it functions as a programme of sensory economy: it reduces the quantity of information perceived, filters chaos and protects us from intensity.
This enables the individual to function without cognitive overload—but also without wonder, vertigo or friction.
Normality therefore acts as a collective anaesthetic: it makes the world more manageable, but less alive. We no longer truly look—we recognise. We no longer feel—we identify. We no longer think—we apply.
All of this offers a certain comfort: fluidity of movement and painless integration. Yet it comes at a price—the price of consciousness.
For everyone to perceive the same thing, at the same moment and in the same way, the density of reality must be considerably reduced.
This anaesthesia is all the more effective because it is gentle. It causes no scandal. It does not hurt. It demands nothing. It merely suggests that everything is fine. That this is not the time to look more deeply. That feeling too much, thinking too much or looking too closely is unnecessary, perhaps even inappropriate.
And it is precisely this gentleness that makes normality a trap: the trap of perceptual comfort.
This is why most people do not realise that they are asleep. They live, work, love and produce. Yet their gaze no longer penetrates. It glides. It avoids. It confirms what it already knows.
In a world saturated with images, information and opinions, normality helps us to see almost nothing while preserving the illusion that we understand everything.
Adherence to this form of collective sleep then becomes a condition of social peace. Anyone who dares to see, feel or question too much quickly becomes unsettling, exhausting or “intense”. Such a person threatens the group’s anaesthetic equilibrium by reawakening senses that others would prefer to keep subdued.
From a Psychooptic perspective, the norm functions like a blurred lens: it prevents us from perceiving certain contrasts and depths. It aligns every gaze within the same narrow field of focus.
This is not a dictatorship. It is an implicit agreement to reduce reality. Collectively, we lower the contrast so that everyone may continue to function, produce and belong.
Yet prolonged anaesthesia eventually produces a subtle phenomenon: absence.
We no longer know why, but something is missing. We compensate through constant stimulation—scrolling, entertainment, goals and connections—yet the emptiness remains.
And this emptiness, embedded at the heart of normality, becomes the silent breeding ground of dependency.
No sleep lasts forever.One day, a detail breaks the pattern: a word, a gaze, a rupture in the rhythm. The veil slips. The light returns—too bright, almost unbearable. And in that moment, the mind understands:
It was never about living.
It was about remaining undisturbed.
Every society, historical period and social group cultivates its own version of normality. Yet in every case, it functions as a programme of sensory economy: it reduces the quantity of information perceived, filters chaos and protects us from intensity.
This enables the individual to function without cognitive overload—but also without wonder, vertigo or friction.
Normality therefore acts as a collective anaesthetic: it makes the world more manageable, but less alive. We no longer truly look—we recognise. We no longer feel—we identify. We no longer think—we apply.
All of this offers a certain comfort: fluidity of movement and painless integration. Yet it comes at a price—the price of consciousness.
For everyone to perceive the same thing, at the same moment and in the same way, the density of reality must be considerably reduced.
This anaesthesia is all the more effective because it is gentle. It causes no scandal. It does not hurt. It demands nothing. It merely suggests that everything is fine. That this is not the time to look more deeply. That feeling too much, thinking too much or looking too closely is unnecessary, perhaps even inappropriate.
And it is precisely this gentleness that makes normality a trap: the trap of perceptual comfort.
This is why most people do not realise that they are asleep. They live, work, love and produce. Yet their gaze no longer penetrates. It glides. It avoids. It confirms what it already knows.
In a world saturated with images, information and opinions, normality helps us to see almost nothing while preserving the illusion that we understand everything.
Adherence to this form of collective sleep then becomes a condition of social peace. Anyone who dares to see, feel or question too much quickly becomes unsettling, exhausting or “intense”. Such a person threatens the group’s anaesthetic equilibrium by reawakening senses that others would prefer to keep subdued.
From a Psychooptic perspective, the norm functions like a blurred lens: it prevents us from perceiving certain contrasts and depths. It aligns every gaze within the same narrow field of focus.
This is not a dictatorship. It is an implicit agreement to reduce reality. Collectively, we lower the contrast so that everyone may continue to function, produce and belong.
Yet prolonged anaesthesia eventually produces a subtle phenomenon: absence.
We no longer know why, but something is missing. We compensate through constant stimulation—scrolling, entertainment, goals and connections—yet the emptiness remains.
And this emptiness, embedded at the heart of normality, becomes the silent breeding ground of dependency.
No sleep lasts forever.One day, a detail breaks the pattern: a word, a gaze, a rupture in the rhythm. The veil slips. The light returns—too bright, almost unbearable. And in that moment, the mind understands:
It was never about living.
It was about remaining undisturbed.
The Individual Learns to Depend on the Other’s Gaze to Validate Their Own Existence
If the norm functions as a form of collective sleep, then the gaze of others is its silent guardian. That gaze validates, frames and regulates. It may be warm or chilling, explicit or diffuse—but it is always present. From our earliest years, we learn to seek it, fear it and desire it. We are not born with the need for validation; we learn it.
Even before acquiring language, every child develops an acute sensitivity to the visual and emotional atmosphere surrounding them. A raised eyebrow, a reassuring smile, a cold silence—each becomes a signal that conditions behaviour. Gradually, the child understands that certain gestures elicit attention, affection and security, while others provoke distance, disapproval, discomfort or anger. The world then divides into permitted and dangerous regions, not according to what is right, but according to what is accepted.
This is how a fundamental automatism begins to form: I am what others are willing to see in me.
The more this mechanism is repeated, the less perceptible it becomes. By adulthood, we no longer experience the need for validation as a learned reflex, but as something self-evident: “I need to be understood”, “I need to be loved for who I am”, “I need recognition”. These statements appear legitimate and profoundly human—but are they truly our own? Or are they merely the echo of a search for approval so ancient that it has become structural?
The problem is not that we need others—human connection is fundamental and formative. The problem begins when the other becomes the sole mirror of our worth. When their gaze reflects not our singularity, but the norm to which we have, or have not, successfully adapted.
At that point, to exist means shaping one’s light to fit the collective bulb. Not too bright, not too dim. Just enough not to disturb.
Dependence upon the gaze becomes a second skin. We no longer act in order to experience, but to be seen. We no longer create in order to explore, but to be recognised. Paradoxically, the more we attempt to “be ourselves”, the more dependent we become upon those who may—or may not—validate that expression.
Today, we call this self-assertion, authenticity or personal development. Yet often, it merely teaches us to market ourselves within a more sophisticated display window. From a Psychooptic perspective, the gaze of the other is an encoded beam: it perceives only what corresponds to its own filters. When we construct ourselves exclusively through that prism, we become confined within its limitations.
One might say that the collective gaze does not perceive the individual, but only their degree of conformity to the figure of the “acceptable self”. And through the desire to belong, the individual gradually bends to fit that figure.
But a human being is not a code. A human being exceeds, escapes and vibrates elsewhere. This is where tension arises: the need for recognition collides with the need for inner truth. Until this tension becomes conscious, it may produce unease, false paths, ruptures and even dependencies. For every absence of being seeks compensation.
And so we scroll.
We perform.
We reinvent ourselves endlessly—to please, reassure and correspond to the expected image.
In doing so, we drift further away. From what? From ourselves—from whatever we might have seen, felt or dared, had the gaze of others not shaped us so profoundly.
Even before acquiring language, every child develops an acute sensitivity to the visual and emotional atmosphere surrounding them. A raised eyebrow, a reassuring smile, a cold silence—each becomes a signal that conditions behaviour. Gradually, the child understands that certain gestures elicit attention, affection and security, while others provoke distance, disapproval, discomfort or anger. The world then divides into permitted and dangerous regions, not according to what is right, but according to what is accepted.
This is how a fundamental automatism begins to form: I am what others are willing to see in me.
The more this mechanism is repeated, the less perceptible it becomes. By adulthood, we no longer experience the need for validation as a learned reflex, but as something self-evident: “I need to be understood”, “I need to be loved for who I am”, “I need recognition”. These statements appear legitimate and profoundly human—but are they truly our own? Or are they merely the echo of a search for approval so ancient that it has become structural?
The problem is not that we need others—human connection is fundamental and formative. The problem begins when the other becomes the sole mirror of our worth. When their gaze reflects not our singularity, but the norm to which we have, or have not, successfully adapted.
At that point, to exist means shaping one’s light to fit the collective bulb. Not too bright, not too dim. Just enough not to disturb.
Dependence upon the gaze becomes a second skin. We no longer act in order to experience, but to be seen. We no longer create in order to explore, but to be recognised. Paradoxically, the more we attempt to “be ourselves”, the more dependent we become upon those who may—or may not—validate that expression.
Today, we call this self-assertion, authenticity or personal development. Yet often, it merely teaches us to market ourselves within a more sophisticated display window. From a Psychooptic perspective, the gaze of the other is an encoded beam: it perceives only what corresponds to its own filters. When we construct ourselves exclusively through that prism, we become confined within its limitations.
One might say that the collective gaze does not perceive the individual, but only their degree of conformity to the figure of the “acceptable self”. And through the desire to belong, the individual gradually bends to fit that figure.
But a human being is not a code. A human being exceeds, escapes and vibrates elsewhere. This is where tension arises: the need for recognition collides with the need for inner truth. Until this tension becomes conscious, it may produce unease, false paths, ruptures and even dependencies. For every absence of being seeks compensation.
And so we scroll.
We perform.
We reinvent ourselves endlessly—to please, reassure and correspond to the expected image.
In doing so, we drift further away. From what? From ourselves—from whatever we might have seen, felt or dared, had the gaze of others not shaped us so profoundly.
The Need to Be “As One Should” Eventually Creates a Loop of Self-Monitoring
At first, there was simply the desire to belong. A natural, archaic impulse: that of a living being seeking warmth, recognition and confirmation of its existence in the eyes of another. Nothing could be more human. Yet through the constant effort to behave correctly, speak correctly and appear correctly, this desire for belonging imperceptibly becomes… a system of self-surveillance. The norm—that collection of learned, repeated and internalised codes—no longer imposes itself from outside. It becomes an automated inner movement, a filter activated before conscious thought can even intervene. And it is through this internalisation of the social gaze that true dependency begins: a dependency that is no longer visible because it is exercised from within ourselves, upon ourselves. We judge ourselves before others can judge us. We censor ourselves before speaking. We correct ourselves before daring to exist differently. None of this is experienced as coercion. It is experienced as common sense, as a form of “maturity”, “realism” or even “social wisdom”.
Yet behind this reasonable façade lies a structure of constant internal control that gradually empties the space reserved for feeling, authentic desire and creative deviation. This is where the connection with dependency becomes clear. Every chronic inner tension—particularly when it remains unrecognised—demands relief. And the subtler that tension, the more socially acceptable its chosen remedy is likely to be: hyperactivity, perfectionism, the pursuit of achievement, a constant need for validation, control of the body, excessive consumption of information and dependence upon the digital gaze through likes, views and comments. Few people recognise these behaviours as signs of addiction.
Yet they display all its defining features: compulsion, temporary relief, loss of contact with the original feeling, residual frustration and repetition of the cycle. Psychooptic allows us to formulate the following hypothesis: what we call the “modern lifestyle” may, to a large extent, be nothing more than a sophisticated system of compensation. Compensation for an unlived self, a forbidden perception, an inner gaze exiled in favour of an external gaze that has become sovereign.
This compensation is not accidental—it is *necessary* in a world where the norm suppresses every form of singularity that becomes too visible. To endure this gentle amputation of the self, invisible sedatives are required. Not drugs, but loops. Habits. Reassuring gestures. Rituals of conformity. Eventually, we live “as one should” without remembering why. We reproduce what exhausts us. We desire what empties us. Most disturbingly, none of this is visible.
The socially normal person—smiling, active and integrated—is sometimes the one suffering most profoundly in silence, trapped within a loop of self-control they mistake for their personality. The question is therefore no longer “Am I free?” but: Who, within me, is holding the camera? And why does that camera always point in the same direction? Leaving this loop does not mean rejecting normality entirely or becoming marginal as a matter of principle. It requires a subtler, more intimate gesture: returning to the origin of the gaze. Not to deconstruct everything, but to *feel again*. To choose not through automatism, but through presence. And perhaps—instead of finally becoming “as one should”—to become alive again.
Yet behind this reasonable façade lies a structure of constant internal control that gradually empties the space reserved for feeling, authentic desire and creative deviation. This is where the connection with dependency becomes clear. Every chronic inner tension—particularly when it remains unrecognised—demands relief. And the subtler that tension, the more socially acceptable its chosen remedy is likely to be: hyperactivity, perfectionism, the pursuit of achievement, a constant need for validation, control of the body, excessive consumption of information and dependence upon the digital gaze through likes, views and comments. Few people recognise these behaviours as signs of addiction.
Yet they display all its defining features: compulsion, temporary relief, loss of contact with the original feeling, residual frustration and repetition of the cycle. Psychooptic allows us to formulate the following hypothesis: what we call the “modern lifestyle” may, to a large extent, be nothing more than a sophisticated system of compensation. Compensation for an unlived self, a forbidden perception, an inner gaze exiled in favour of an external gaze that has become sovereign.
This compensation is not accidental—it is *necessary* in a world where the norm suppresses every form of singularity that becomes too visible. To endure this gentle amputation of the self, invisible sedatives are required. Not drugs, but loops. Habits. Reassuring gestures. Rituals of conformity. Eventually, we live “as one should” without remembering why. We reproduce what exhausts us. We desire what empties us. Most disturbingly, none of this is visible.
The socially normal person—smiling, active and integrated—is sometimes the one suffering most profoundly in silence, trapped within a loop of self-control they mistake for their personality. The question is therefore no longer “Am I free?” but: Who, within me, is holding the camera? And why does that camera always point in the same direction? Leaving this loop does not mean rejecting normality entirely or becoming marginal as a matter of principle. It requires a subtler, more intimate gesture: returning to the origin of the gaze. Not to deconstruct everything, but to *feel again*. To choose not through automatism, but through presence. And perhaps—instead of finally becoming “as one should”—to become alive again.
What If What Needed to Change Was Not the Self, but the Lens?
Today, it is fashionable to speak of personal change. Transformation. Well-being. We are told that moving forward requires us to know ourselves, heal our wounds and regulate our emotions. None of this is necessarily wrong. But what happens if the instrument through which you observe your world is itself distorting? What if what you take to be “you” is merely the effect of a collective lens so ancient that you can no longer see it? Psychooptic invites us to shift the question. What if the problem were not what you are, but *how you learned to perceive yourself*? What if the gaze itself were constructed, encoded and directed? What if normality were an imposed angle—a visual habit that everyone mistakes for an essence? Changing the lens does not mean opposing the system. It does not mean isolating yourself, becoming marginal or rejecting everything. It means recognising that the world cannot be reduced to what you see of it—and that you cannot be reduced to what you believe yourself to be. It means recovering a certain plasticity of vision, a flexibility of attention that reveals alternatives where previously there were only automatisms.
And perhaps it also means learning to recognise the reflex of control, the fear of deviation and the need to be “as one should”. To understand that these reflexes are not personal. They are the product of collective conditioning, transmitted sometimes through love and often through necessity. Together, they formed an optical framework that, through being shared, eventually became mistaken for truth.
Leaving this loop does not require a superhuman effort. It begins with a slight shift. A change of angle. Consider a cylinder: viewed from the front, it appears to be a circle. Viewed from the side, a rectangle. Only by gaining perspective do we understand that it is both at once—and neither at once. Human consciousness was not made to remain fixed. It was made to move, explore and expand. And it is this capacity to change the lens that makes us alive. Not the image we project or norm we follow. It is the movement of the gaze. And what if that, ultimately, were true freedom?
And perhaps it also means learning to recognise the reflex of control, the fear of deviation and the need to be “as one should”. To understand that these reflexes are not personal. They are the product of collective conditioning, transmitted sometimes through love and often through necessity. Together, they formed an optical framework that, through being shared, eventually became mistaken for truth.
Leaving this loop does not require a superhuman effort. It begins with a slight shift. A change of angle. Consider a cylinder: viewed from the front, it appears to be a circle. Viewed from the side, a rectangle. Only by gaining perspective do we understand that it is both at once—and neither at once. Human consciousness was not made to remain fixed. It was made to move, explore and expand. And it is this capacity to change the lens that makes us alive. Not the image we project or norm we follow. It is the movement of the gaze. And what if that, ultimately, were true freedom?
Auteur: Anastasia Beschi
21/09/2025 (from French)
21/09/2025 (from French)