What even is real, bruh? (Part 1)

I’m new to Substack, okay? There’s a solid chance I’ll forget it exists by the time this plane lands. If, however, you comment and say all sorts of nice things about what I’m about to write, Substack might be something I remember, and even publish on.

Okay, let me see. I’d like to write a series of short articles (three or so) on skepticism, Cartesian epistemology, and phenomenal conservatism (fancy words but we’ll make it simple-ish) as an antidote to the mess I think it has gotten us into.

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How’s this for a definition of truth: “To say of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not, is true.” Aristotle. The Metaphysics. You’re welcome.

It’s a beautifully straightforward definition of truth, no? But it can raise a far trickier question—the kind of question that both intelligent philosophers and teenage fellas who thought American Beauty was a profound movie like to ask. Namely: How do we know what is? Is it possible to know anything at all? Or are we, as some suggest, doomed to skepticism, forever trapped in doubt about what’s real and what’s not?

I remember, as a teenager—somewhere around the time that I thought American Beauty was a profound movie—going through a phase where I seriously doubted the existence of the external world, and even the existence of other people. What if the world around me wasn’t real? What if everything I saw and experienced was just an elaborate illusion, like a dream I hadn’t woken up from? I’d sit in my room and think about my friends, wondering if they were just sophisticated robots, cleverly programmed to act human, or even worse—figments of my imagination, existing only in my mind. The question gnawed at me: How could I be sure? I didn’t have an answer, and the more I thought about it, the less certain I became. I remember sharing these concerns with a mate of mine—Gareth. (God bless you for putting up with me, Gareth.) One day in the school library, I decided to lay it all out: my doubts about the world, the unsettling possibility that everyone around me—including him, the poor bugger!—might not actually exist. Gareth listened patiently and, when I was done, looked at me with genuine concern and said, “Matt, I promise, I’m real.”

But it didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse. I immediately thought, Well, of course, you’d say that if you were trying to deceive me. His reassurance only fed into the spiral, leaving me more convinced that I couldn’t trust anything—or anyone.

Thankfully, this bout of solipsism didn’t last long. I can’t quite recall how I got over it—probably just moved on to other things. One minute I was questioning the fabric of reality, and the next I was downloading guitar tabs or trying to figure out if Karen was, in fact, now single.

Crisis averted.

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Ok, I may finish this later. On whatever platform this is. Stacksub, is it?