Chapter 1: A Small Wave in a Big Ocean

I remember the moment the world began to feel... incomplete. It wasn't that my thoughts were too big, but rather that the answers I had been given suddenly felt too small. It wasn’t a dramatic revelation or a flash of light. It was a quiet, ordinary feeling. I had been reading Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, and something in that book stirred a strange restlessness. Hawking spoke about black holes, singularities, and the beginning of time with such calm detachment, as if they were merely technical details. To me, they felt like doorways to something much larger—and at the same time, frighteningly small.

The more I read, the more I felt something was missing. The models were elegant, but they left the most important question unanswered: Who—or what—is observing all of this?

Does something need to observe itself in order to exist? When the box is closed, does Schrödinger’s cat know whether it is alive, dead, or something in between?

“To exist I must observe myself.”

I don’t know where that sentence came from. It appeared one evening as I was staring at the night sky. It felt like a persistent gut feeling: What if I’m not a separate being in this universe? What if I’m just one way the universe is looking at itself?

From that moment on, I could no longer look at the world the same way. I don’t claim to know, but I believe I know. And at the same time, I know I believe.

This book is an attempt to follow that path. It moves through science, philosophy, metaphysics, and personal experience—sometimes through bright landscapes, sometimes through deep ravines. We aren't trying to find final answers. We are simply trying to understand the questions better.

When Observation Changes Everything Does our reality need to be observed for it to exist?

In physics, they talk about the observer effect. In the double-slit experiment, light behaves like a wave when no one is watching, but the moment we measure it, it acts like a particle. Observation seems to force reality to choose a form. It’s fascinating—and a little unsettling.

Does the world change when we look at it? Or does only our picture of it change?

I don’t know. Maybe this small wave I call “me” doesn’t just swim in the vast ocean—it shapes the ocean simply by watching it. Or maybe it only imagines it does, and the ocean smiles quietly to itself, showing us only what we expect to see.

Still, the thought won’t leave me alone. If observation really changes something—even if only inside me—then every curious glance is a small creative act. Every “what if?” is a gentle disturbance on the still surface: just a ripple, a small wave in a bigger ocean. And if that’s true in the quantum world, why couldn’t it be true in ordinary life?

I don’t have the answer, and I may never have one. But that uncertainty itself feels important. It keeps me awake—not in a bad way, but in a way that makes this small wave feel curious, alive, and in motion.

And perhaps the heart of it all lies exactly in that motion: in daring to look, even when I don’t know what I will find.

What thought did this short post bring you? Please share your comments and let's work together. Lets make this small ripple a larger wave <3