Everything we know begins as electrical impulses coming from the senses. These impulses combine to form a best guess, but a distorted anti-reality.
Having learned this truth and traced some of its implications, I find myself dancing around my beliefs, timidly peering around their edges, examining them for cracks, and nervously exposing them. I have become wary of feeling too much passion, drift, and emotion. Does my knowledge of the hero maker mean I must forever forbid myself from fighting angrily for a doctrine? If everyone had to do this, it would be disastrous. Progress would stall, and civilization would dry up. I must conclude, then, that as dangerous as illusion is, it can also work for good. The appropriate response, therefore, is to accept my human nature, close my eyes, open my arms, and then return to it.
I will try to remember, though, that as difficult as it may feel at times, there is always a chance I could be wrong. And this happiness lies in humility: in forgiving others, and in forgiving myself.
We are creatures of illusion. We are made of stories. From heretics to skeptics, we are all lost in our own neuroses, our own secret worlds. We are just ordinary heroes fighting the ghost of Goliath, doing our best in the service of truth, when the only thing we truly know are our impulses.