( -0960 ) Have Global Allergies Skyrocketed as a Result of the Poorly Thought Out Nature of Vaccines?

( -0960 ) Did Allergies Skyrocket as a Result of the Low Tech Nature of Vaccines. Are They Insidious Like Ingested Fluoride? Do they Want You Only Well Enough to Manage?

I got tired of no one talking about how vaccines penetrate too deeply into our immune defenses without giving the body a chance to maintain it's orientation, leading to other common substances or internal cellular material being over- sensitized to or confused as negatives. Someone needs to discuss this. So I made an AI video short imagining that someone was.

Some featured clips credited to FexL (Please visit & subscribe to this fantastic Youtube channel linked below and watch his content) - One of the videos the clips were derived from and discussed (at the very end of the clips) is Scientists Say the Universe Might Be a Hoax - Here's Why

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exUZQmJ3Qi0

https://www.youtube.com/@fexl

mRNA, Covid, jab, vaccine, autism, allergy, allergies, allergen, schedule, obesity, blood pressure, pots, Blade Runner, 8K

TRANSCRIPTION:
Vaccines are a vital tool in protecting public health, but like any medical intervention, they come with challenges.
Among these are rare but significant immune system reactions such as allergies and autoimmune issues.
These often arise when the immune system becomes confused due to sudden or excessive exposure to vaccine components.
Traditional vaccines deliver a relatively large dose of antigen in one go, aiming to trigger a swift and strong immune response.
However, in some cases, this abrupt exposure can overwhelm the immune system's natural ability to differentiate between harmful invaders and harmless substances like dust, mold, or pollen potentially leading to unintended allergic or autoimmune responses.
Our innovative approach introduces a multi-tiered vaccine administration protocol designed to improve this process by mimicking how the immune system learns in nature, gradually and carefully.
First, rather than overwhelming the immune system, the vaccine introduces a minimal amount of antigen in a highly controlled setting.
This initial dose is small enough to avoid startling the immune system, but sufficient to start educating it about the presence of a foreign agent.
By ensuring this controlled environment, the immune system's peripheral checkpoints, which constantly survey and weigh harmless environmental materials, aren't distracted or misdirected by an overload of antigen.
After a carefully timed interval, typically around 24 hours, a second, larger dose is administered again in a controlled, low-distraction setting.
This stage delivery allows the immune system to consolidate its understanding of the antigen, distinguishing it more clearly from harmless materials.
This stepwise approach helps prevent the immune confusion that can lead to sensitization against allergens or self-components.
By modulating both the amount and timing of antigen presentation, this method aligns with natural immune tolerance mechanisms.
It supports a balanced immune response that effectively targets the vaccine antigen without provoking adverse reactions.
Overall, this multi-tiered, controlled environment vaccine administration holds the promise of reducing allergic and autoimmune side effects,
building greater public trust, and safeguarding more individuals, especially those with heightened immune sensitivity.
In the quest for safer and smarter vaccination strategies, this approach bridges immunological sophistication with pragmatic healthcare to create a healthier, more resilient society.
Operation Reduce Immune Talk is a game-changer in the world of vaccination. Here's why.
You see, when someone gets vaccinated, their immune system goes through something called immune training.
It learns to recognize the virus and how to fight it.
But what if we could reduce potential sensitizing effects so as not to create more harm than good?
That's where Operation Reduce Immune Talk comes in.
The idea is to safely introduce immunity for problematic antigens while keeping the overall immune system healthy and robust.
And here's the best part.
It uses nature's own immune methods, but supercharges them.
With your help, we can get the word out and finish our research to provide the public with a world-leading, truly optimized technology that is safe, affordable, and diminishes further dependence on Big Pharma.
[Music]

[Applause]

[Applause]
We're used to thinking of the universe as a container.
A big three-dimensional space filled with stuff.
Inside that space, things happen.
Time passes, objects move, energy flows.
This framework is so deeply wired into how we think that we treat space and time as the stage,
the background against which all events unfold.
But there's a growing realisation in physics that space and time might not be fundamental.
That they're not the backdrop, but the result.
That they emerge from something else.
Something that isn't spatial, isn't temporal, and isn't made of matter.
And that changes everything.
Let's start with space.
In classical physics, space is assumed to be continuous, smooth.
You can zoom in infinitely and there's always more room.
But in quantum physics, that idea starts to break.
When you combine quantum mechanics with general relativity, the two best theories we have,
you reach a limit.
A scale so small that the very concept of space loses its meaning.
That's called the Planck length.
About 1.6 times 10 to the negative 35th metres.
Smaller than that.
And the uncertainty in energy becomes so extreme that space itself starts to fluctuate.
Geometry breaks down.
Distances stop being measurable.
And at that scale, you can no longer say where things are.
The idea of a location stops working.
Some physicists believe this is where space-time itself falls apart.
Not because it's broken, but because it was never fundamental to begin with.
It was just a convenient approximation.
A low resolution image of something deeper.
Enter loop quantum gravity.
A theory that doesn't assume space and time exist.
Instead, it builds them from a more basic idea.
Networks of relationships.
In this view, the universe is not a smooth continuum, but a discrete graph of connections.
Think of it like a web.
Not made of points in space, but of links between quantum states.
And from the way those links evolve and interact, space emerges.
Not all at once.
Not as a motion, but as a large-scale effect that only appears when you zoom out far enough.
You don't start with space, you start with connectivity.
This is also where Carlo Rovelli's work becomes important.
His idea, known as relational quantum mechanics, suggests that objects don't have absolute properties.
Only relative ones.
There's no such thing as a particle with an independent state.
Everything is defined in relation to something else.
That applies to particles, but it also applies to events, locations, and time itself.
Think of it this way.
Just as left and right have no meaning without a point of reference,
quantum properties also depend entirely on context.
There is no single, all-seeing perspective.
Instead, reality is made of countless interactions.
Where systems meet, exchange information, and define each other.
What's true for one observer may not be true for another,
and yet both can be correct within their own frame of reference.
In relational quantum mechanics, you don't start with things and then connect them.
You begin with relationships, and from those connections, things take shape.
In other words, nothing exists by itself. Not even space.
Now let's talk about time.
Time feels fundamental.
You wake up, you age, you remember the past, and anticipate the future.
But what if that flow is an illusion?
What if time doesn't exist at the deepest level of physics?
That's not just a thought experiment.
Many equations in modern physics don't contain time at all.
They describe relationships between states, but no ticking clock.
The Wheeler-DeWitt equation, one of the key formulations in quantum gravity, is famously timeless.
It describes the universe as a whole.
Not evolving, but existing as a complete entity with all its states encoded simultaneously.
So, where does the experience of time come from?
According to some physicists, time emerges from entanglement,
the quantum connection between particles.
The more entangled the system, the more classical it behaves.
And in that transition from quantum chaos to classical order, a direction of time appears.
Not as a fundamental arrow, but as a statistical pattern.
An emergent property of large systems.
This connects to the idea of entropy, the measure of disorder.
In thermodynamics, systems naturally move from order to disorder.
That's where our sense of time's flow comes from.
But if the laws of physics are time-symmetric, and they are,
then there's no reason why one direction should be special.
The arrow of time is not built into the universe.
It's a feature of how complex systems behave.
So when we say "time passes", we're describing a change in informational structure.
Not something physically flowing.
There's no master clock. Just shifts in configuration.
Now let's bring this together.
If space is emergent and time is emergent, and matter is just vibrations in fields,
then everything we experience is a high-level approximation.
A macroscopic view of something that has no familiar geometry or rhythm underneath.
Imagine watching a video game.
You see characters moving across landscapes.
There's distance, time, gravity, light.
But none of that exists inside the computer.
What really exists are logic gates, voltages, binary operations,
mathematical instructions that create the illusion of space and time.
The game feels real because you're seeing the output, not the source.
That's what modern physics is starting to suggest.
That what we call the universe is like the rendered display of a much deeper system.
One that doesn't contain objects or locations or clocks,
but networks, symmetries, correlations, and entanglement.
And here's the striking part.
This isn't fringe speculation.
This is becoming mainstream.
In fact, several research teams like theoretical physicist Mark van Ransdonk and his colleagues
are now showing that the geometry of space-time,
the curves and stretches described by Einstein,
can be derived from quantum entanglement patterns.
In one model, space appears to form when enough qubits become entangled.
The more entangled they are, the more connected space becomes.
Less entanglement.
Space disintegrates.
That means the universe is not a thing inside space.
It is the structure of information.
Think about that.
You don't exist in space.
You are space.
Or rather, you are a localized region of organized relationships,
manifesting as a self-aware bundle of entangled states.
Your body, your memories, your thoughts, all expressions of structure, not stuff.
So the question "where is the universe?" might be meaningless.
There is no "where" without entanglement.
There's no "when" without entropy.
There's no "what" without interaction.
What we call the universe is just the emergent interface of something much deeper.
A system where everything depends on everything else.
Where nothing exists alone.
And where the most basic elements aren't particles, space or time, but connections.
And if none of those things are fundamental, then maybe the universe never existed in the first place.
At least not the way we imagined it.
By now we've seen that space might not be fundamental.
That time might be emergent.
That matter itself could be nothing more than fluctuations in invisible fields.
We've seen that the universe, everything we take as concrete,
could be the result of deeper rules, entangled structures and information flow.
And that raises a question we can't ignore anymore.
If all of this can be described in terms of data, rules and computation,
then is it possible that the universe is a computation?
Let's be clear.
We're not talking about the pop culture version of simulation theory,
where aliens built a matrix, or we're stuck in a video game designed by future humans.
That's the flashy version, easy to imagine, but not what serious physics is pointing toward.
This is something deeper. Stranger.
The idea that reality behaves so much like a computational process that it might be one.
Not running on a computer, but indistinguishable from one in structure and function.
The simulation doesn't have to be created to be real.
It only needs to work like a system of logic.
Let's back up.
In the early 2000s, philosopher Nick Bostrom framed a now famous argument.
He said that if advanced civilizations can simulate conscious beings,
and if they have any interest in doing so, then simulated realities would vastly outnumber real ones.
In that case, the odds that we're in the base reality are low.
But we're not here for philosophy. We're here for physics.
And physics is starting to reveal patterns that make this idea hard to ignore.
First, digital behavior.
At small scales, nature isn't continuous. It's quantized.
Energy comes in packets. Spin comes in fixed values.
Even space, if theories like loop quantum gravity are right, comes in finite chunks, like pixels.
That's not how analog systems behave. That's how digital systems behave.
Second, universality of rules.
Every interaction we've observed, from gravity to electromagnetism to nuclear decay,
follows precise mathematical patterns.
Not approximately. Exactly.
This doesn't just make nature predictable. It makes it programmable.
The entire universe seems to be running on code, not metaphorical code.
Literal, rule-based interactions that take inputs and return outputs.
Third, limits of information.
Black holes again show us something weird.
According to the Bakenstein bound, the maximum amount of information that can be stored in a region of space
is proportional to the surface area, not the volume.
That means there's a cap on how much information any region of the universe can contain.
And if there's a cap, there's a resolution. A data budget.
Like memory on a hard drive.
This fits with the holographic principle.
It also fits with the idea that the universe might operate like a computational system.
Finite in information, rule governed and bounded.
But here's the part that really matters.
Reversibility and logical consistency.
In computation, every step follows from the last.
There's a chain of operations, and each outcome is determined by the rules of the system.
In classical mechanics, this was true too.
The future followed from the present.
But quantum mechanics broke that.
Unless you zoom out.
In many interpretations, including the many worlds interpretation,
the quantum universe evolves deterministically at the global level.
All possible outcomes are encoded.
Nothing is erased.
That's exactly how a reversible computation works.
Nothing is lost.
Every possibility is preserved.
The randomness only appears when you observe from within.
Just like a subroutine inside a program doesn't see the rest of the code running in parallel.
So what if our entire universe is a kind of recursive computation?
Not simulated in the way a game is simulated,
but emergent from rules that generate structure out of initial conditions.
That's where the work of physicist Stephen Wolfram becomes relevant.
In his book A New Kind of Science, and more recently in his physics project,
he suggests that the universe is not a machine running equations.
It is the equations.
That everything, space-time, particles, causality,
can emerge from the evolution of simple rewriting rules
applied to abstract objects like hypergraphs.
These aren't spatial objects.
They're patterns of connections.
And by letting these patterns evolve through discrete steps,
Wolfram's models generate systems that display behavior eerily similar to what we see in physics.
Relativity, quantum interference, locality,
and even conservation laws.
This isn't proof, but it's a sign.
A sign that maybe we've been looking at reality backwards.
Not as a structure existing in space and time,
but as the output of computations that generate the illusion of space and time.
And that ties into Max Tegmark's mathematical universe hypothesis.
Tegmark's idea is simple, but radical.
The universe isn't described by math.
It is math.
It's not that equations model reality.
Equations are reality.
If something is logically consistent and mathematically well-defined,
then it exists.
And our universe is just one such structure.
In that view, we're not living in a simulation built by someone.
We're part of a mathematical object,
like the Mandelbrot set or a cellular automaton,
existing eternally as a logical possibility.
There's no need for a program, no need for a computer, just the rules.
But if that's the case, then what does it mean to exist?
Because in a computational universe, everything is just a state in a system.
The chair, the tree, the moon, they're not objects floating in space.
They're states in a gigantic logical operation.
They're patterns that persist, because the rules make them persist.
You and I are like stable loops in a program,
self-reinforcing data structures held together by feedback and flow.
So we have to ask, is there a universe outside the rules?
Or are the rules all there is?
If this view is right, then reality isn't some grand cosmic machine
humming away in a void.
It's the totality of consistent relationships,
a closed set of self-consistent operations unfolding step by step,
without a background, without a container,
and without an observer outside the system.
Which means there's no universe to find, no physical object labelled reality,
just the rules, just the logic, just the information evolving.
And from that, everything else arises.
If everything we've seen so far has been slowly tearing down the walls
of what we thought reality was,
quantum gravity kicks the floor out from under our feet.
Because it doesn't just challenge the idea of what things are,
it challenges the idea of where they are.
It tells us that location itself might not be fundamental,
that here and there, near and far,
are not built into the fabric of the universe.
They emerge.
And if they emerge, then the universe as a thing in space never existed.
This is where physics moves into its most abstract terrain,
the attempt to unify quantum mechanics and general relativity
into one coherent theory,
the theory of quantum gravity.
Why do we need such a theory?
Because right now, our two best models of the universe don't play nice together.
Quantum mechanics works brilliantly at small scales,
describing particles, atoms and probability.
General relativity explains the large-scale structure of the cosmos,
planets, stars, black holes and gravity.
But the moment you try to apply both theories at once,
say to the inside of a black hole,
or to the first instant after the Big Bang,
everything breaks.
That's where quantum gravity comes in.
It's not a single theory, but a category of ideas
that try to explain how gravity works when quantum effects can't be ignored.
And it leads to one of the most radical conclusions in all of science,
the idea that space-time isn't continuous, isn't smooth,
and might not even be real at all.
Let's start with loop quantum gravity again.
This theory proposes that space-time isn't a background,
it's a network.
Not a grid, not a sheet, but a graph.
Points connected by links, like atoms of space,
each carrying quantum information.
In this model, there is no such thing as distance between two points in space
until you ask a question about it.
Until a measurement forces the structure to reveal a relationship.
This sounds abstract, but the logic is clean.
If space is emergent, then you can't start with it.
You can't say, "This particle is over here, and that one is over there."
You have to start with relations.
The connections, the entanglements, the system.
That's where non-locality enters the picture.
In classical physics, two objects can only affect each other if they're close.
If you push a ball, it moves.
If something's far away, you need a force that travels the distance,
like gravity or light.
But in quantum mechanics, particles can become entangled,
linked in such a way that their states are connected,
no matter how far apart they are.
One and the other responds instantly.
Einstein called this "spooky action at a distance,"
and it bothered him deeply,
because it violates what he saw as a sacred rule,
that nothing can influence anything faster than light.
Experiments have now confirmed entanglement beyond all doubt,
not just in labs, but over kilometers, even across satellite distances.
Two particles measured far apart show correlations
that can't be explained by any hidden signal traveling through space.
These effects are non-local, and they're real.
Quantum gravity takes this even further.
In newer models, like those based on Addy SCFT and tensor networks,
the entanglement structure itself gives rise to spacetime.
You don't need a grid or a field.
You just need a web of entangled states.
Space is what happens when enough things are entangled in the right way.
Distance is not a number.
It's a measure of how connected two regions are in the network.
And that leads to something incredible.
Er equals EPR.
This is a proposal in 2013 by physicists Juan Maldacena and Leonard Susskind,
who suggested that entangled particles, EPR pairs,
might be connected by microscopic wormholes, Einstein rows and bridges.
In other words, entanglement and geometry are not separate.
They are two views of the same thing,
implying that quantum mechanics and gravity are deeply intertwined.
To visualize it, imagine two entangled particles as two points on a sheet of paper.
In standard quantum mechanics, their correlation seems spooky
because they instantly affect each other despite being far apart.
Er equals EPR suggests there's a hidden tunnel, wormhole, under the paper connecting them,
so their correlation is due to a direct geometric link, not action at a distance.
If every pair of entangled particles is linked by such hidden wormholes,
then perhaps the fabric of spacetime itself is woven from these quantum threads.
Entanglement becomes the stitching, and geometry the cloth,
hinting that space, time and connectivity all emerge from an invisible quantum web beneath what we call reality.
This is not just wordplay.
If correct, it means that space itself, the thing we move through, measure with rulers,
and separate objects by, is nothing more than a manifestation of entanglement.
The more entangled two regions are, the closer they are in space.
Break the entanglement, and they drift apart, not in physical distance, but in the structure of space itself.
This also fits with emergent gravity models proposed by a Dutch theoretical physicist, Eric Verlinde.
He posited that gravity is not a fundamental force, but an emergent phenomenon,
akin to thermodynamic properties like temperature or pressure,
which arise from collective behaviours of many particles.
In this view, gravity arises from the way information is distributed across a surface.
The bending of spacetime isn't caused by mass, it's caused by how the system organises information.
When mass is present, it alters the distribution of quantum information, or entanglement,
which manifests as spacetime curvature and gravitational attraction.
So, if you remove mass, you don't get empty space, you get a shift in the informational structure.
The space doesn't exist on its own, it's the visual result of how the system is wired together.
This flips everything on its head. There is no space, there are no particles flying through empty volume,
there is no out there separate from in here.
What we perceive as separation, as distance, is just a property of a deeper layer of data.
Space is an illusion generated by connections, and the illusion holds up well, until you push it too far.
At high enough energies, or small enough scales, the illusion breaks.
Black holes are one example, the early universe is another.
These are the places where classical spacetime fails, and the underlying structure starts to show.
Not because we're missing pieces, but because the pieces never existed to begin with.
You were never in space. Space was in you. Or more precisely, space was between you and everything else.
Defined not by position, but by relation. You exist as part of the structure, not inside it.
And if locality is emergent, then so is position.
And if position is emergent, then there's no absolute universe to speak of, no container,
just a dynamic web of information, woven together by quantum rules that don't care about location,
because location isn't real.
Which brings us back to the central question.
If there's no space, no time, no particles, no fixed laws, and no objective here,
then what exactly is the universe?
So far we've taken apart the physical world piece by piece.
Matter, particles, space, time, and found that none of it holds up the way we thought.
It's not made of objects in space. It's not built on steady ground.
It's not even there in the traditional sense.
Instead, it's all pattern, structure, relation, and information.
But there's one thing we haven't touched yet.
The observer, not the telescope, not the detector, the experience behind the observation.
The fact that there's a point of view, a conscious witness.
And here's where things get uncomfortable.
Not because it's spiritual or vague, but because physics has been quietly tiptoeing around this issue
for almost a hundred years.
And it still doesn't know what to do with it.
Let's go back to quantum mechanics, specifically the measurement problem.
When you observe a quantum system, you get a definite result.
But before that observation, the system exists as a wave function.
A superposition of possibilities.
The math describes probabilities, not certainties.
So how does a specific outcome appear?
What turns that cloud of maybes into a single event?
Some interpretations say the wave function isn't real.
It's just a tool for predicting outcomes.
But others, like the Copenhagen interpretation, suggest the wave function does represent something real.
And that the act of observation collapses it.
So what counts as an observation?
A screen, a detector, a thermometer.
In most setups, measurement devices are treated as classical, that is, not quantum themselves.
But everything is quantum, right?
Detectors are made of atoms. So are brains.
So at what point does the wave function collapse?
Where's the line between quantum and classical?
And here's where things get interesting.
There's no clear answer.
You can push the boundary further and further.
Automate the detector, the analysis, the logging, and the system stays quantum.
The only place where things get definitively real is at the level of conscious awareness.
At the moment, a result is known.
That doesn't mean your thoughts are collapsing wave functions.
It means there's a missing piece.
A gap between the equations and the experience.
Between the math and the moment.
This is sometimes referred to as the Heisenberg cut.
The line between the quantum system and the observer.
But that line is arbitrary.
Move it wherever you want and the math still works.
That's not a bug.
That's the problem.
The physicist Eugene Wigner went even further.
He argued that consciousness must be fundamental to the measurement process.
That wave function collapse doesn't happen until a conscious observer sees the result.
To test this, he imagined the now famous Weigner's friend thought experiment.
It goes like this.
Your friend is inside a sealed laboratory performing a quantum experiment.
Say, measuring the spin of an electron.
From their point of view, as soon as they observe the result,
the wave function collapses into a definite state.
Either spin up or spin down.
The outcome becomes real for them.
But from your perspective, standing outside the lab,
you have no idea what results your friend saw.
As long as the lab remains closed and isolated,
quantum theory says you must treat the entire lab,
your friend included, as being in a superposition.
One in which they saw spin up, outcome A,
and one in which they saw spin down, outcome B.
According to standard quantum rules,
until you open the door and ask your friend what they saw,
both outcomes coexist in parallel.
It's as if your friend is in two states,
having seen outcome A and having seen outcome B.
So, who is right?
Did the collapse occur when your friend saw the result,
or only when you became aware of their experience?
Wigner's thought experiment poses a profound challenge
to our understanding of reality.
It raises the unsettling possibility that conscious observation
may not just witness reality, but may be necessary to create it.
The moment of collapse may not happen
until an awareness emerges to register it.
While this idea may seem absurd, it's not a joke.
These kinds of scenarios are being taken seriously now,
not because they point to mystical truths,
but because they reveal cracks in the foundations of physics.
One possible conclusion is that consciousness plays an active role in reality,
not in a magical way, but as an essential ingredient.
Maybe reality isn't something that exists independently,
out there, waiting to be discovered.
Maybe it's something that emerges at the intersection of the observer and the observed.
A process. A co-creation.
This idea has resurfaced in modern contexts.
For example, the participatory universe model, proposed by physicist John Wheeler,
suggests that the universe requires observers to exist in any meaningful way.
That what we call "reality" is incomplete without observation.
And that observation isn't passive, but constructive.
Wheeler famously said, "No phenomenon is a real phenomenon until it is an observed phenomenon."
That suggests the universe doesn't simply exist and wait for us to notice it.
Rather, the act of noticing is part of what makes the universe real.
Again, this isn't about beliefs or metaphysics.
It's about accounting for what physics actually predicts,
and what we actually experience.
There's also growing interest in integrated information theory, IIT,
which attempts to quantify consciousness in terms of information structure.
It proposes that consciousness arises when a system contains a high level of integrated information.
A kind of feedback loop, where the whole is more than the sum of its parts.
If true, then consciousness is not tied to a brain or biology,
but to a particular kind of structure.
A pattern.
Which would mean consciousness might be fundamental to the universe.
Not an afterthought, but part of the base level architecture.
And if that's the case, we may need to flip the question entirely.
Instead of asking, "How does consciousness emerge from the universe?"
We might need to ask, "How does the universe emerge from consciousness?"
That's the direction explored by analytic idealism,
where the physical world is seen not as primary,
but as a shared interface between conscious agents.
A kind of public space, generated by overlapping experiences.
It's not mainstream physics, but it's becoming harder to ignore.
Especially as the role of the observer refuses to be explained away.
Even in the most conservative models, the fact remains.
There is experience.
There is subjectivity.
There is observation.
And physics still doesn't know where to put that.
You can describe particles, fields, symmetries and dynamics.
But none of that explains why you're aware of them.
None of it predicts the first-person experience of being anything.
There's nothing in the Schrödinger equation that implies the colour red,
or the taste of salt, or the sound of your name.
Yet here you are.
So, what happens when you build a model of the universe that accounts for everything,
except the fact that someone is looking at it?
You get a complete map with no territory,
a system with no context,
a machine running perfectly,
but with no one home.
That's why some physicists are beginning to admit,
maybe the one thing we've treated as least important, awareness,
is the only thing we're sure exists.
And if the universe doesn't exist apart from observation,
then what is it?
Maybe not a place, not a thing, not a structure.
Maybe it's a conversation, a moment-by-moment act of interpretation,
a live rendering of what's possible, collapsing into what's perceived.
And if that's the case, then the universe doesn't precede consciousness.
It follows it.
By this point, the old picture of the universe is gone.
No more tiny particles zipping through empty space.
No more solid objects built on solid ground.
Even time, that comforting sense of before and after, has lost its grip.
And then there's space, which now seems less like a backdrop
and more like a side effect of something else.
So, what's left?
If you peel everything back, matter, fields, geometry, even the observer,
what remains?
What could possibly exist that isn't a thing,
doesn't live in space or time,
and yet somehow gives rise to everything?
Physicist John Archibald Wheeler offered an answer that still echoes
through the core of modern theoretical physics.
"It from bit."
Three simple words, but they carry a radical message.
What Wheeler meant is this.
Every "it", every object, every particle, every chunk of matter,
originates not from something physical, but from information.
From binary choices.
From bits.
The universe, in this view, is not built on stuff.
It's built on decisions.
Yes or no.
On off.
One or zero.
The raw building blocks of logic.
Now, when Wheeler introduced this idea, it sounded extreme.
But today, the idea that the universe is fundamentally informational
has only gotten stronger.
Because the more we learn, the more it looks like physics isn't describing material objects,
it's describing rules and relations.
Not what things are, but how they interact.
And that's what information is.
Structured difference.
Correlation.
Constraint.
Possibility.
Let's start simple.
Take a single bit.
The smallest possible unit of information.
It doesn't weigh anything.
It doesn't take up space.
It's just a distinction.
One option instead of another.
But stack enough of these together, and you can describe anything.
A text.
A song.
A Nagy K video.
A digital copy of the Mona Lisa.
Now zoom out.
A single atom contains roughly 10 to 100 bytes of informational complexity,
depending on its type.
Hydrogen requiring less, heavier atoms more.
A molecule composed of multiple atoms and their interactions
holds hundreds to thousands of bytes, scaling with its size and structure.
A living cell, with its intricate network of molecules,
may contain billions to trillions of bits,
dynamically rearranged through metabolic and signalling processes.
DNA, at its core, is a four-letter informational code.
Every physical process we observe,
chemical reactions, magnetic fields, motion through space,
can be modelled in terms of data, inputs, transformations, outputs.
And this isn't just about modelling.
In quantum physics, information plays an active role.
When you measure a quantum system, you're not just recording what's there.
You're creating a new state.
You're updating the information.
The act of observation doesn't just extract data.
It writes it into the universe.
That's what makes quantum systems so strange.
They don't have definite properties until something interacts with them,
until information gets registered.
This is why quantum information theory has become such a powerful tool.
It doesn't treat the universe as made of particles or waves.
It treats it as a system for processing information.
Quantum states, entanglement, superposition.
All of them can be described in terms of how much information
can be stored, transmitted or shared.
Even black holes, once thought to be simple dead zones of gravity,
are now understood as intense informational systems.
According to the holographic principle,
everything that falls into a black hole gets encoded on its surface,
like a cosmic hard drive.
The entropy of the black hole, its internal disorder,
is a direct measure of how much information it contains.
The edge of the black hole isn't just a boundary in space.
It's a boundary of information.
So what does that tell us?
It tells us that information isn't something that rides on top of reality.
It is reality.
It's not the description.
It's the thing being described.
That's what Wheeler was getting at.
He wasn't saying that reality is made of data like files on a computer.
He was saying that every fundamental event in the universe,
every interaction, every observation, every measurement,
is an act of informing, of reducing uncertainty,
of resolving between possibilities.
In Wheeler's view, observation, measurement and interaction
aren't secondary features of the universe.
They are primary.
Every measurement is a moment of choice, of resolution,
where what could be becomes what is.
Wheeler's insight dissolves the rigid boundary between the observer and the observed.
It implies that reality is not a thing, but a process.
Not a collection of static objects,
but a dynamic unfolding of questions and answers,
of possibilities collapsing into outcomes.
What we call particles are just the results of these events.
What we call objects are patterns in this ongoing process of decision making.
This view flips the hierarchy of reality.
In the old view, information came last.
First you had matter, then matter interacted, then you recorded what happened.
But in the "it from bit" model, information comes first.
The "it", the things we see, are secondary.
They are the results of informational processes playing out according to rules.
This brings us to quantum computation.
Not just as a technological tool, but as a possible description of reality itself.
A quantum computer doesn't store information in bits, but in qubits.
Quantum bits that can exist in multiple states at once.
And it doesn't just run calculations.
It runs all possible paths in parallel,
and interferes with itself to extract a result.
That's a lot like how the universe behaves.
Every possible outcome exists in superposition, until one becomes actual.
Not because the other outcomes disappear, but because information gets updated.
The wave function doesn't collapse randomly.
It narrows, it selects, it resolves.
Even space and time in this framework can be seen as informational parameters.
Space is a way of organising correlations.
Time is the order in which updates happen.
Neither one needs to exist out there.
They're bookkeeping tools, the stage is not fixed.
The rules are dynamic.
And this is where digital physics comes into the conversation.
This branch of theoretical thinking proposes that the universe is computable.
That all physical laws can be described algorithmically.
And that the evolution of the universe is a kind of computation.
Not running on a laptop, not simulated by aliens.
But playing out because that's what information does.
The universe doesn't run on particles and forces.
The evolution of the cosmos is not simply the result of blind forces moving matter around,
but a layered, recursive, intelligent unfolding of informational patterns.
It runs on code.
And the code doesn't describe the universe.
It is the universe.
But what's running the code?
That's the wrong question.
In it from bit, there's no need for a processor or a machine.
There's just the logic, the consistency, the unfolding of relations.
The existence of difference.
As long as there's a way for bits to flip, for possibilities to become outcomes,
the universe happens.
No clock, no space, just the flow of information.
Which brings us back to the question that's been floating in the background
since the beginning of this script.
If the universe isn't made of matter, and it's not built in space,
and it's not running in time,
and if all that exists is information interacting with itself,
then what does it mean for the universe to exist?
Maybe it doesn't.
Not in the way we've always assumed.
Not as a place.
Not as a container full of things.
Maybe the universe is a conversation between bits.
A self-sustaining process of difference collapsing into form.
A logic that never stops writing itself.
And maybe what we call reality is just the part of the code we happen to be embedded in.
The subroutine we're aware of.
A tiny corner of an infinite informational structure that doesn't need space,
doesn't need time, and doesn't need things.
Only patterns.
Only decisions.
Only bits.
Up to this point, most of what we've explored has come from theory.
Deep equations, abstract models, philosophical implications.
But physics isn't just theory.
It's experiment.
And experiments are supposed to tell us what's real.
What's observable.
What's measurable.
So here's the unsettling part.
Even the experiments agree.
The universe doesn't behave the way it's supposed to.
Not if you're expecting a real physical world with consistent logic and fixed rules.
Let's walk through a few of the strangest cases.
Not hypotheticals, not thought experiments.
Real tests with real data.
And the results aren't just weird.
They're structurally incompatible with everything we thought the universe was.
Start with the Bell test experiment.
Extensions of John Bell's famous theorem which we briefly mentioned earlier.
Bell showed that if the world obeys something called local realism,
the idea that physical properties exist before they're measured,
and that no influence can travel faster than light,
then certain inequalities must hold when we test entangled particles.
But every single time we've run these tests, Bell's inequalities are violated.
We've entangled photons, electrons, ions, measured their spins or polarisations
at different angles, in different locations, using increasingly airtight protocols.
And again and again we get results that cannot be explained
by any hidden variable theory that preserves local realism.
The only options we're left with are non-locality.
Distant events can affect each other instantly.
No realism, particles don't have properties until you observe them.
Both.
Neither one fits into a universe made of physical stuff obeying local rules.
Then there's the Quantum Eraser experiment which takes things even further.
You fire photons through a double slit setup and mark which path they take with a tag.
Some which path information.
If you record the path, the interference pattern disappears.
If you erase the path information, even after the photon has hit the screen,
the interference pattern returns. That's not wordplay.
The choice to erase the information after the fact appears to retroactively change
the past behaviour of the particle.
The photon acts as if it knew whether it would be measured later.
This has been tested multiple times with setups that carefully isolate the timelines,
using entangled particles and delayed choices.
The results are consistent.
The universe behaves as if it's aware of how it's being watched, even across time.
Now consider the Quantum Zeno effect.
In this phenomenon, simply observing a quantum system repeatedly can freeze its evolution.
The act of measurement collapses the wave function,
so if you keep measuring over and over, you prevent the system from changing.
In one experiment, atoms trapped in a potential well were allowed to tunnel out,
a purely quantum process.
But by probing them with rapid laser pulses, scientists stopped the atoms from escaping.
This isn't metaphysics. It's standard lab procedure.
The act of measurement, by defining the system's state, shapes its reality,
suggesting the universe's evolution is tied to observation.
The fact that watching something changes, it is no longer strange to physicists.
It's accepted.
But the implications still haven't been fully absorbed.
Because if something doesn't behave the same way when it's unobserved versus when it's observed,
what does it mean to say it exists independently?
That's the kind of question most scientists politely sidestep.
They prefer to focus on what they can predict.
And quantum theory does make predictions, incredibly accurate ones.
It's the most tested theory in the history of science.
But it does so without ever telling us what reality is.
It's a black box. You put in a question, you get out an answer.
But you're not allowed to know what's inside.
Now let's look at gravity, the one force that still hasn't been reconciled with quantum theory.
Several experiments are being developed right now to test whether gravity itself behaves in a quantum way.
One approach uses quantum superpositions of tiny objects, like nanocrystals,
and checks whether their mutual gravitational influence causes entanglement.
If gravity can entangle two quantum systems, then it must have quantum properties.
But if it can't, then something's very wrong.
Because that would mean gravity remains classical even when everything else doesn't.
It would mean that the one thing shaping space-time itself,
the structure that holds everything else together, refuses to join the quantum club.
This could hint at a deeper problem.
Maybe space-time isn't a smooth field.
Maybe gravity isn't a force at all.
Maybe it's a sign that the thing we think is the universe isn't what's actually there.
Now zoom out again to cosmology.
The universe is expanding. That's accepted.
But when we try to model this expansion precisely, we run into anomalies.
Dark energy, driving accelerated expansion, remains mysterious.
Dark matter, inferred from gravitational effects, eludes direct detection.
The cosmological constant problem is stark.
Quantum field theory predicts a vacuum energy density of about 120 orders of magnitude,
larger than observed, making it the most inaccurate prediction in physics history.
If our best theory gives us the wrong answer by 10 to the minus 120,
we're not just missing a detail.
We're missing the foundation.
Something about how we've built the model is flawed at a fundamental level.
Even the cosmic microwave background, the afterglow of the Big Bang,
contains strange cold spots and alignments that don't match our expectations.
Is it noise? Is it new physics? No one knows.
But it's another clue that something isn't fitting.
And then there's Planck-scale physics, the regime where quantum effects and gravity collide.
We can't test it directly. We don't have the energy.
But several theoretical models suggest that, if we could zoom in far enough,
space would stop being smooth.
It would dissolve into probabilistic chunks, or lose directionality, or become topologically twisted.
Some even suggest the speed of light might vary slightly at those scales,
depending on energy, a violation of Einstein's special relativity.
Instruments like the Fermi Gamma-ray Space Telescope have been used to search for signs of this.
So far, results are inconclusive. But the very fact that we're looking
shows how unstable our confidence in spacetime has become.
In short, the experiments haven't disproven reality.
But they've poked so many holes in it that what remains no longer
looks like the universe we thought we were living in.
We're measuring effects that don't line up with causality.
We're seeing behaviours that violate location.
We're interacting with systems that don't exist until we interact with them.
And we're doing all of this using equations that work perfectly,
but tell us nothing about what's real.
So, maybe that's the point.
Maybe the reason we keep getting strange answers is because we're asking the wrong question.
We keep looking for the universe. A thing. A system. A world.
But maybe what we're inside of isn't a universe at all.
Maybe it's something else entirely. Something that only looks like a universe when you measure it from within.
So far, we've torn apart the model of the universe piece by piece.
We've seen matter reduced to excitations, space demoted to a side effect,
and time turned into a statistical illusion.
The idea of a thing out there, solid, objective, persistent, has evaporated under the weight of physics itself.
But if the universe isn't real in the way we thought, then what does that make us?
You'd think this would be the easier part. After all, if nothing else, you exist.
You're here, thinking, watching, aware of something, even if you're not sure what it is.
But that certainty, too, begins to shake when we look closer.
What are you? A body. A brain. A process.
Are you a pattern of neural activity, playing out according to rules you didn't choose?
Are you a system of thoughts and behaviours shaped by genes, culture and experience?
Or are you something else? The one who sees it all happening, but isn't part of it.
In a universe that no longer contains absolute space, permanent objects, or a reliable flow of time,
the idea of a self becomes complicated.
Let's start with the body. It feels like your anchor, the part of you that's real.
But modern biology paints a different picture.
Your body is not a static structure. It's a living process.
Your cells are constantly dying and regenerating. Your atoms are replaced over and over.
The body you had ten years ago, it's physically gone.
And yet, you feel like the same person. So if the you isn't in the flesh, where is it?
Maybe the mind. But the mind, too, is slippery.
It's not a single thing. It's a stream. Thoughts rise and fall.
Memories come and go. You forget things, invent false ones and change your opinions over time.
The mental self is fluid, unstable, a narrative that rewrites itself as it goes.
Some might say consciousness is the answer, the fact that you're aware.
But what is consciousness? It's not intelligence.
Intelligence can be mimicked by algorithms crunching data, solving problems, or playing chess,
without ever feeling a thing. It's not memory, either.
Memories are just stored information, retrievable by neurons or hard drives alike.
It's not a thing. You can't locate it, measure it, or describe it in physical terms.
There's no equation for it, no coordinates. It doesn't occupy space.
It doesn't obey any known force. Yet it's the one thing you cannot deny.
You might doubt the world. You might doubt your beliefs.
But you can't doubt that you're experiencing something.
It's the raw experience of being, the feeling of red, the sound of a violin, the sting of regret.
This is the hard part of the hard problem of consciousness.
Not how neurons create thoughts, but how subjective experience exists at all.
You can reduce everything else to function. Inputs, outputs, behaviour.
But experience doesn't fit. There's no clear way to explain why red looks like red, or why pain feels like pain.
You can describe the brain states. You can even replicate them.
But the experience, the qualia, can't be predicted from the data.
This opens the door to something strange. Maybe we've had it backwards.
Maybe experience isn't a product of the universe. Maybe the universe is a product of experience.
That's not just a philosophical fantasy. It's an idea that's been quietly spreading across multiple disciplines.
From neuroscience to quantum physics to computational theory.
The growing suspicion is that what we call "reality" might not be primary.
That it might be a constructed interface, emerging from some underlying process of observation or interpretation.
In this model, the self isn't something living inside the universe.
It's part of the system that gives the universe shape.
Not a controller. Not a creator. But a participant.
In some interpretations, the self is not even a thing. It's a boundary.
A line drawn between what is known and what is not.
Between what can be experienced directly and what must be inferred.
In this view, you are not a noun. You're a verb. A function.
A frame of reference through which information collapses into reality.
That sounds abstract, but it's not.
When you perceive something, anything, you're creating meaning.
Not inventing it out of nowhere, but reducing ambiguity.
Choosing a version. A configuration.
What you see. What you hear. Even what you think is never raw data.
It's always interpreted. Selected. Rendered.
This matches what physics has been saying all along.
Outcomes aren't fixed until they're observed.
And observation isn't passive. It's participatory.
So where does that leave you?
Maybe you're not inside the universe at all.
Maybe you are the mechanism by which the universe appears.
Not as a separate observer, but as a local process.
A temporary fold in the structure that happens to reflect itself.
This is the idea behind participatory realism.
A philosophical perspective advanced by American physicist Christopher A. Fuchs.
He proposes that reality doesn't exist out there, but only arises through interaction.
You don't observe the universe.
You are one of the interactions that gives it form.
This challenges the classical notion of a fixed external world.
This idea resonates with ancient philosophies, reinterpreted through a scientific lens.
It echoes Buddhism's no-self.
Where the self is not a fixed entity, but a process of interdependent interactions.
It inverts Descartes' doubt, shifting from "I think, therefore I am" to a reality defined by participatory engagement rather than isolated certainty.
Similarly, it parallels Hinduism's Atman-Brahman unity, where individual consciousness and universal reality are intertwined.
Yet Fuchs grounds this in quantum theory's empirical limits, not spiritual metaphor.
Modern science's inability to pin down an objective, observer-independent world, leads to this logical conclusion.
Reality is relational, arising through our interactions with it.
And this has one more consequence.
If the universe is informational, and we are embedded perspectives within that information,
then the idea of a singular global reality breaks down.
Each observer doesn't just see the world differently.
They might see a different world.
Not because they're hallucinating, but because reality itself is fragmented, distributed, relational.
This brings us to the strange, but increasingly supported view that there is no single, shared universe.
Just overlapping domains of information, coherently interacting, each forming its own version of events.
You're not a thing in a world.
You're a perspective in a structure.
And if that structure changes depending on who's looking, then the universe doesn't contain independent observers.
It's made of acts of observation, which makes the self, the very thing we thought was separate from reality, the last piece left standing.
Not because it's fundamental, not because it's supernatural, but because it's the one feature that can't be removed without collapsing the entire system.
The self emerges as the linchpin of existence, because it is inseparable from the act of experiencing.
The self is the fulcrum upon which the universe pivots, the irreducible spark that ignites reality.
You can remove matter, and the cosmos might still hum with energy.
You can remove time, and patterns might persist in some eternal now.
You can remove space, and relations might endure in an abstract web.
But you can't remove the experiencer, because without experience there's nothing to talk about.
Nothing to measure, nothing to collapse.
No physics, no theory, no world.
Just a blank.
So the question isn't "what are we in?" or "what are we made of?"
These are echoes of a materialist dream, a yearning for solid ground.
The real question is far more urgent, far more alive.
What are we doing, right now, that breathes existence into being?
Every thought, every sensation, every choice is an act of creation, a fleeting collaboration with the universe.
You are not just in reality. You are its co-author, its pulse, its possibility.
To live is to observe, and to observe is to make real.
[Music]
After everything we've broken down, the unreliability of space, the instability of matter,
the illusion of time, and the dependency of reality on the observer,
there's a deeper question emerging underneath it all.
Have we been chasing something that doesn't actually exist?
Not in the mystical sense, not in the "nothing is real" cliché,
but in a very technical, very concrete way.
That the idea of a single, objective, background universe might be a projection of our thinking,
a misunderstanding of how reality is structured.
We've spent centuries trying to describe the universe as a container,
as a place that holds things, a setting, a map.
But what if there was never a "there" to begin with?
That's not just philosophical speculation.
It's a natural conclusion when you trace modern physics to its edges.
Because the more precisely we try to define where something is,
the more space itself starts to slip away.
The more we try to isolate what something is, the more its identity dissolves into relationships.
We keep chasing structure, but when we get close the structure collapses into context,
into reference points, into comparisons, never absolutes.
Take particles for instance. We used to think they had position, momentum, mass and charge.
Properties you could list and pin down.
But now we know these properties only make sense relative to other things.
A particle has a momentum with respect to a frame,
an energy with respect to a system,
entanglement with respect to a measuring device.
None of these properties are standalone.
They exist independently. They exist in relation.
Which means that if you try to isolate one thing and ask "what is it?"
you're missing the point. Because nothing exists on its own.
This is where physics begins to look like language.
You can't define a word without using other words.
You can't explain a concept without referring to other concepts.
Meaning is built on difference, not substance, not essence. Just relationships.
And the universe seems to behave the same way.
There's no absolute grid. No external reference.
Every coordinate, every quantity, every measurement only makes sense in terms of something else.
And if everything is defined this way, not as a thing, but as a position within a web of relations,
then what exactly is the universe we've been trying to describe?
It might be that what we call the universe is just a model, a framework,
that works well within a narrow range of scales, but doesn't exist beyond it.
Like Newtonian mechanics. It's useful. It works. But it's not fundamental.
It's not the real thing. It's the version that happens to emerge under certain conditions.
And if that's true for space, time, mass and motion,
then maybe it's true for the entire concept of a universe.
That's what theories like relational quantum mechanics proposed by Carlo Rovelli are starting to suggest outright.
That there is no global reality. No complete view.
Just interacting perspectives, each defining their own local reality.
There's no universal truth to collapse the wave function for all observers.
Each system collapses its own version, according to its own interactions.
In other words, there's no there. There's only the act of interacting.
The event. The relation.
Reality in this view is not a thing we live inside.
It's the sum total of what's happening between systems.
This echoes something that's shown up in multiple areas of physics.
In quantum field theory, particles aren't real.
Fields aren't even real in the old sense. They're just bookkeeping devices.
Tools that encode how different systems influence each other.
What's physically meaningful isn't the field or the particle or the wave function.
It's the correlation between inputs and outputs.
In general relativity, space-time isn't a grid.
It's a record of how objects influence each other's paths.
Curvature isn't a thing that exists by itself.
It's what you see when masses shift relative to each other.
Again, relationships, not things.
And in thermodynamics, entropy isn't a substance.
It's a measure of uncertainty.
It tells you how many possible configurations your system could be in, given what you know.
It's not about the thing itself. It's about your information about the thing.
So, over and over the pattern is clear.
What we call real is really shorthand for a set of relationships.
A structure of differences. A pattern of outcomes.
There's no core, no centre, just interaction.
And if everything reduces to interaction, then there's no need for a background.
No need for a canvas.
Because the painting is only the brush strokes. There is no surface underneath.
So maybe what physics is trying to tell us, without quite saying it,
is that the universe isn't a thing at all.
It's not a system with parts. It's not a location.
It's not a container full of matter governed by laws.
It's a process. A set of ongoing transformations.
Not from one state to another, but from no state to something observable.
Again and again.
Not because there's a hidden structure pushing things forward,
but because forward is what the system looks like from the inside.
You were never inside the universe.
You were always inside a particular version of the story the data tells
when it passes through a perspective like yours.
So, what is the universe? Maybe it's not a place.
Maybe it's the word we use to describe the patterns that show up
when nothing becomes something, through the lens of something else.
What is the universe?
By now the idea of the universe as a physical thing, a giant machine,
or a place filled with objects, is long gone.
What we've been left with is a system of relations.
A layered mesh of interactions, correlations and outcomes.
No objects, just structures. No timeline, just informational flow.
No definite states, just probabilities collapsing into moments.
Which leads us to a strange but necessary question.
If the universe is just structure, just syntax, then where's the meaning?
Because that's what we've been trying to find all along, isn't it?
Not just patterns, not just formulas, but something behind it.
Something in it. A message. A cause.
A reason for why anything is the way it is.
Something we could point to and say, "There, that's what it's all about."
But what if there's nothing there to find?
What if what we call reality is more like a language, full of rules, grammar and logic,
but with no speaker, no message, no intent, just syntax generating syntax?
A recursive system unfolding from initial conditions,
with no goal, no observer and no meaning other than the patterns it produces.
Let's break that down. Everywhere we look in physics, we find structure.
Not arbitrary chaos, not randomness, but deep order.
Elegant equations, symmetries, invariances, conservation laws.
It's tempting to believe that such structure must mean something.
That it must be pointing to something else.
But structure doesn't need meaning to exist. It just needs consistency.
Grammar, for example, can exist without anyone speaking.
It's a framework. A set of constraints that shape what's allowed and what isn't.
The universe behaves in a similar way.
It seems to say only what it's allowed to say, based on its internal rules.
No equation in physics tells us why things are the way they are.
They just tell us what's possible, what&apo