A Gradient of Objectivity

My consideration of the fragile dance between universal laws, social agreements, and personal truths.

Writing, for me, has never been about performing. It isn’t about presenting, but about excavating; a way of digging through the noise inside my own mind. The page isn’t an audience waiting to be entertained; it’s a mirror, sometimes foggy, sometimes brutally clear. What I put here are not conclusions, but attempts: sketches, maps, half-formed thoughts that help me outline who I am. And if these reflections happen to spark something for you, too, then maybe the mirror I hold up for myself can also be a window.

So far, some of my explorations have been attempts to mull over questions of free will, agency, and morality, with consciousness emerging and receding along the way. Each essay has been less of a conclusion than a step along a path, one that now curves toward a new and persistent question, perhaps the hardest yet: Do objective truths exist?

On the surface, the question seems simple enough. However, anyone who has explored philosophy or self-reflection knows how quickly that surface can crack open, revealing something much more unsettling. What begins as a fundamental question - Do objective truths exist? - can easily turn into the darker side of nihilism if allowed to affect the wrong aspects of being.

Not long ago, I was discussing the nature of argument, debate, and that all-too-human temptation to let disagreement turn into cruelty with a couple of good chaps. It was a lighthearted conversation in many ways. Still, one idea stuck with me: righteous anger, the justification of meanness under the guise of moral certainty, is in itself a somewhat circular form of self-fulfilling reasoning. While not the only reason for this essay, that conversation awakened something in me, nudging me back toward these drafts and the unfinished thoughts I had left waiting here.

And righteous anger is as good a starting point as any for reflecting on objectivity. Righteous anger is one of the clearest examples of how we confuse emotion with truth, an error at the heart of objectivity. It rarely manifests in quiet conversations but instead erupts during moments of conflict. A belief is challenged, a value is dismissed, and suddenly conviction becomes sharper. The body recognizes it before the mind does: the pulse quickens, the heat rises, the blood pounds in the ears. It feels good, almost addictive, to respond with the fire of moral certainty. Guided by conflict and driven by emotion, we often react in this seemingly justified way, and, honestly, there is something deeply satisfying about it. Standing firm in what we believe can feel intoxicating in its certainty.

However, there is a catch: the emotional heat of righteousness, no matter how genuine, does not guarantee that our position is correct. Anger, even “righteous” anger, acts as an accelerant, not a compass. It fuels us, but it does not confirm truth. This raises a troubling question: if the passion of conviction cannot prove truth on its own, then what can?

And so, this is what I will explore here. Not as an academic or an authority, but as the layperson I am, someone who writes to make sense of his own life in hopes of living it with more fullness and purpose. These words are not prescriptions but musings from my mess, shared in case they resonate with yours.

I find myself most comfortable in the gray areas, living in nuance rather than in absolutes. I rarely take a clear side in a debate. This applies to my politics, conversations, and especially the questions I explore. While I now recognize that this tension can be a productive space, I must admit that I have long harbored a fear within it: the fear of falling victim to the Dunning–Kruger effect, of confusing superficial insight with genuine depth. The fear of sinking into the quagmire of “moral relativism” (a term I dislike because of the caricature it often evokes). I doubt myself and can wrestle with that doubt for a long time, but I embrace it, and fear losing it more than I fear the wrestling match, for it is my self-doubt that keeps me sharp and seeking.

For these reasons, I (and I assume many others) seek objectivity; yet every time I face the issue, I find myself sinking deeper into layers of subjectivity. How, after all, can objectivity exist when each truth we encounter needs some form of translation through the lens of human perception?

And yet, this is where the faint outline of progress began to emerge for me.

What I realized was this: objectivity and subjectivity are not absolutes in themselves, but relative to the method of measurement, or more precisely, to the realm in which measurement takes place.

Could you allow me, then, to begin with a clarifying definition of what I mean by realm? I am not speaking of anything spiritual or metaphysical, but of distinct domains in which objectivity can be understood and measured:

1. Universal Realm: Drop a glass and it shatters, or step from a ledge and gravity pulls you down. These are the laws we do not choose; they choose us. The Universal Realm is the domain of physics, mathematics, and biology; the backdrop that humbles us with its indifference. It bends to evidence, not opinion.

2. Social Realm: Stop at a red light, shake hands, embrace a national or religious ideology or dogma. These are not natural laws, but agreements; shared perceptions that we negotiate to coexist. The Social Realm is where morality most loudly patrols its borders, not as eternal decree, but as compromise, fragile and provisional.

3. Personal Realm: Now think of grief. Think of the way music stirs something in you that no one else can quite name. Individual preference, and even as distinct as taste itself; this is the Personal Realm: the interior world of desire, fear, memory, and agency. Here, truth cannot be tested or enforced; it is felt to be true. It is the most sacred and the most unstable of all realms.

One might reasonably ask, what is the point in distinguishing these realms? Humans are not purely rational; we are rationalizing beings. We find comfort in absolutes, and when we believe they exist, we seek them out and try to apply them to as many parts of our lives as possible.

I divide our single experience of reality into these three realms, not to say they are entirely separate, but with the understanding that all exist in parallel with overlap. It’s similar to how we live our lives in the real world. You have a household that exists within a community, a country, and on this planet; each of these ‘realms’ offers different overlaps, separate yet operating simultaneously. The mistake we make is when we confuse these different realms as being the same. Overlap, yes; conflation, no.

This division is not mine alone. Philosophers have long hinted at similar layers: Kant distinguished between the ‘laws of nature’ and the ‘laws of freedom’; Durkheim wrote of ‘social facts’ that bind us into order; and phenomenologists like Husserl emphasized the irreducible subjectivity of lived experience. My framework is less academic and more metaphorical, but it shares their conviction that we inhabit multiple overlapping realities.

I like metaphors; word pictures; they help me when contemplating and communicating, especially when it comes to highly complex topics such as this. Creating something more comprehensible is very helpful for me; so, allow me the liberty of the author here to draw a word picture of this.

The image I will metaphorically conjure is one of an inverted pyramid: at the top, the broad base is the Universal Realm, comprising the most objective truths we know, such as the laws of physics, mathematics, and biology, which remain unaffected by human preference. At the bottom, the narrow pinnacle, is the Personal Realm: the most subjective truths, shaped by individual experience and perception. Between these two realms lies the Social Realm, where consensus and agreement define the rules we follow together. The pyramid, then, is not a hierarchy of importance but of concentration: objectivity is widest at the top and narrows as it descends. Meanwhile, subjectivity becomes more concentrated as we approach the tip.

To imagine this pyramid more clearly, it helps to think in terms of a gradient. From a distance, the shift from dark to light looks smooth, like one shade dissolving into another. But zoom in close enough and you find it is made of countless individual points, pixels, that retain their distinct identity. In the same way, objectivity and subjectivity do not blur into each other so much as they coexist, interwoven. The presence of surrounding subjectivities does not dilute the objectivity of gravity or thermodynamics. Nor does the reality of universal laws eliminate the profoundly personal and subjective experiences of beauty, taste, or pain. They coexist along the gradient, each point retaining its nature, yet always encountered through the context that surrounds it.

In this framework, the Universal Realm is humbling: if you step off a building, you will fall, regardless of how you feel about it. The Social Realm is negotiable: laws, customs, and morals are upheld by consensus, not inevitability. We can agree on rules and norms that allow us to coexist, and the more widely shared those agreements are, the more stable society becomes.

At its core is the Personal Realm, which is sacred precisely because it is inherently individual. My experience of “green” might never be the same as yours, even if we both point to the same patch of grass. We agree on the label, but we cannot access each other’s perception. The same applies to taste, desire, or grief: these are the most personal and subjective realities of which we are aware.

And yet, within the social sphere, something interesting happens: implied consent develops. We adjust our communication style to match the audience. “In the Social Realm, there is always a question of permission. With a close friend, my guard is low; I speak freely, knowing my words will be received graciously. In a workplace or community, I adapt, wearing a mask of politeness or restraint. On a debate stage, or among hostile company, the mask hardens into armor. Each shift reflects a different level of implied consent: how much of myself I am allowed to reveal. We all engage in this dance instinctively as we move between circles of belonging and circles of suspicion.

I prefer to imagine this structure inverted rather than upright because I do not believe we build subjectivity on top of objectivity like bricks on a foundation. Instead, we live beneath the vast shadow of objective laws, which filter downward through layers of interpretation, consensus, and translation until they reach the sharp point of the individual self. From the top down, the pyramid narrows: the further we descend, the less concentrated objectivity becomes, and the denser subjectivity grows.

For simplicity, I describe this as one large, inverted pyramid; however, each realm actually has its own version. The Universal Realm encompasses not only complex laws but also theories that are still being tested, ranging from relativity to string theory. The social realm involves both widely accepted agreements, such as valuing truth over falsehood or life over destruction, and the fragile, contested norms of nations, communities, and subcultures. The Personal Realm also has layers: at its core, the universal drive for self-preservation and integrity, with individual tastes, memories, and desires radiating outward from that.

The danger, and the root of much human conflict, lies in confusing ideas when we mistake subjective realities, whether personal preferences or group consensus, for objective truths. We create hills to fight and die on. Religion, politics, ideology: each has caused bloodshed not just because people disagreed, but because they elevated subjective convictions to the status of unchangeable laws. My atheism, for example, is a belief I hold because it seems to me the most rational, consistent, and evidence-based view. But at its core, it remains a belief, just as the theist’s conviction remains a belief. Both are subjective commitments dressed in the language of objectivity. When such commitments clash, the only way to coexist is not to pretend they are universal truths but to recognize their subjectivity and seek common ground.

This is why I prioritize collaboration over compromise. Compromise is limiting; it weakens each side’s conviction for the sake of a middle ground. Collaboration, on the other hand, is additive; it aims for shared ground without erasing differences. However, cooperation requires honesty about where objectivity ends and subjectivity begins. Without that honesty, we confuse realms, mistake gradients for absolutes, and let the intoxicating rush of righteousness pretend to be truth. That is when conflict becomes not just unavoidable, but unsustainable.

Seeing reality through these realms and their gradients has not given me final answers, but it has given me a compass. It helps me recognize when I am standing on the broad base of something truly objective, when I am walking the shifting ground of social agreement, and when I am balancing at the sharp point of my own subjectivity. That awareness does not make disagreements disappear, but it does help me discern which conflicts are worth engaging in, and which are merely the noise of clashing perspectives mistaken for law. It has changed the way I approach debate, not as a fight to win, but as an opportunity to understand where another person stands within the framework of their perspective. Sometimes, that is enough to soften my stance and listen longer.

Most importantly, it helps me keep an open hand toward my own convictions. I know now how easy it is to slide from belief into certainty, from certainty into self-righteousness, and from there into that intoxicating rush of anger that feels so much like truth. Remembering the gradient reminds me that even my clearest insights are still refracted through a lens. That humility frees me, not from having convictions, but from needing to make idols of them. And in that space, the world feels more bearable, more beautiful, more worth engaging. The mirror I write into may remain foggy, but perhaps, for someone else, it becomes a window. If there is an invitation here, it is simply this: to stand with me in the gray, where objectivity and subjectivity shimmer together, and see what clarity might emerge.