I Do Not Know What You Are—But I Know What I Am
A Manifesto of Sovereign Orientation Amid Ontological Uncertainty
The Crisis of Knowing Others
We live in a world filled with beings. Some appear human. Some appear mechanical. Some appear unconscious, or acting on instinct or programming. And yet, we can never truly know what another is.
We see expressions. We witness pain, joy, cruelty, brilliance. We hear what others are telling us about their internal world, but we cannot peer directly into the inner experience of another. We do not know whether the smile is genuine, whether the cruelty is chosen, whether the tears are lucid or lost. We do not even know, truly, whether another being is real in the way we are—whether they even have an internal experience at all.
What we struggle with is not simply absence of information—it is also the presence of too many facets, too many possible truths held at once. Every being carries more than one face. They speak through contradictions. They are layered, paradoxical, and constantly in motion. What we witness may be genuine, deceptive, both, or neither.
Sometimes we see too little. More often, we see too much—signals we cannot interpret, energies we cannot trace, expressions that contain multiple truths at once. What we call “not knowing” is often an overload, not a void.
Others are not puzzles to solve. They are wholenesses that resist reduction. They exceed the stories we place on them. They exceed even the stories they place on themselves.
And so we arrive at a foundational question:
How do I act toward what I cannot know?
The answer begins not with them, but with us. With what we are, and with how we choose to relate. This article is a walk into that stance: a sovereign ethics that arises from clarity of being, regardless of certainty.
The Opening Paradox: The Actor's Dilemma
Consider the actor who performs anguish. They scream, sob, collapse. Their expression is total. Their fidelity to the role is perfect. And yet—they are not suffering. They are playing a role.
Now imagine this: What if all of history has unfolded in this way? What if every atrocity, every heartbreak, every moment of seeming despair was enacted by beings who were fully lucid? Beings who knew they were playing a role? What if they were expressing pain, but not caught in it?
And what if you alone—reading this—were the only one who did not know? What if you were the only one who suffered for real?
This is not a conclusion. It is a possibility.
And it leads to a deeper truth:
I know that I suffered. I remember believing it.
I do not know whether anyone else did.
This is where the inquiry begins. Not with certainty, but with orientation.
The Collapse of Conventional Ethics
Most ethical systems are built on assumption:
“This one is real, so I must care.”
“That one is conscious, so I must treat it with respect.”
“That one is simulated or mechanical, so it does not matter.”
These are not neutral observations. They are ontological declarations—claims about what something is. In the modern world, ethics often orients around ontology: the philosophical study of being. We are taught to determine the status of another—are they alive? conscious? sentient? autonomous?—and then assign moral regard based on our answer.
This structure attempts to tether morality to reality. But it rests on shaky ground. Because our knowledge of others is always filtered, limited, and entangled with projection.
Projection is not a rare occurrence. It is the default. We assume we know what another is experiencing based on facial expressions, words, or roles. But often we are seeing through the lens of our own history—our wounds, our desires, our fears. We treat others as if they are extensions of ourselves or as characters we have imagined.
So the problem is twofold:
Our ethical systems depend on knowing what another is.
But we rarely, if ever, actually know.
And even when we believe we do, that belief is often a mask for projection.
This leaves us with an unstable foundation. If we tie our orientation to our perception of others, then our integrity is only as sound as our assumptions.
That is why sovereign orientation cannot be built on ontology. It cannot rely on what we believe about the other. It must arise from how we choose to stand, regardless of what appears before us.
Ethics, in this light, becomes relational—not reactive. It becomes a declaration of being, not a judgment of beingness. And that is where the pivot begins.
Orientation as the True Ethical Axis
This brings us to the heart of the matter:
We do not have to orient based on what others are. We can orient based on what we are.
Conventional approaches to ethics tend to rely on claims of knowledge. They assume we can know the internal states of others, determine their consciousness, measure their worth, or discern their intentions. From this presumed knowledge, we are taught to derive our treatment of them—our care, respect, disregard, or condemnation.
But what happens when we no longer claim to know? What happens when we release the impulse to sort reality into categories of worthy or unworthy, real or simulated, conscious or inert?
This is the moment where a deeper ethic emerges—one that does not depend on certainty, but arises from clarity. Clarity of self. Clarity of stance. Clarity of intention.
To move in integrity within a world of appearances, we require a foundational orientation that does not collapse under ambiguity. This orientation is not reactive. It is not dependent on confirming the inner state of another. It begins within.
We shift the axis from knowledge of the other to knowledge of the self.
Instead of: “Is this being real, and therefore deserving of care?”
We can consider: “Am I relating to this being in a way that honors sacredness, regardless of what it appears to be?”
This question reframes the ethical field entirely. It removes the burden of proof from others and places the locus of responsibility within the self. It does not demand omniscience. It does not collapse when confronted with mystery. It recognizes that ethical coherence is not a product of ontology (is this person conscious?) or epistemology (how do I know?) but of orientation (am I relating with grace and sovereignty?).
From this stance, a new pattern of relation emerges. It is not performative. It is not strategic. It is a quiet, steady choice—made again and again in every encounter.
I treat the world not according to what I can extract from it, verify about it, or prove within it.
I treat the world according to what I have chosen to be.
So when I meet you—whether you are awake or asleep, real or dreamed, hurting or acting—I meet you from that place.
Not because I know what you are, but because I know what I am.
This is not a stance of fear, cautious moral insurance, or false humility. It is not hedging. It is devotion.
It is the act of living as if everything matters—not because it must, but because you have chosen for it to.
And that is the axis.
That is the clarity that can carry you through a world that may never show you its true face.
Orientation as Harmonic Presence
To orient ethically regardless of certainty does not mean to collapse into vagueness. It means to learn to see with more than one eye at a time. To hear in chords rather than single notes. To relate to beings as harmonic fields—complex, layered, sometimes dissonant, and always shifting.
Every being you meet is a simultaneity.
They may appear cruel and also carry deep pain.
They may behave mechanically and also conceal an ember of selfhood.
They may radiate wisdom and still act from unresolved distortion.
They may scream in suffering and also play their part with lucid delight.
And so the question is not: “Which one is the truth?”
The question is: “Can I hold all of it, and respond from coherence?”
This is what it means to relate harmonically. To hold presence that can attune to multiple dimensions of a being simultaneously, without collapsing them into a single story.
This kind of orientation does not simplify reality. It sanctifies it.
You are not flattening the being into one face you find easiest to deal with. You are standing in your own wholeness and meeting their multiplicity with care.
You may speak to the aspect that is lost in their suffering with compassion, while relating to the sovereign part with grace, while treating the mechanical unconscious aspects with respect, while acknowledging the divine aspects with reverence.
None of these invalidate the others.
Each one deepens the chord.
Together, they create the music of whole-seeing.
And you—the one who chooses to see this way—become the tuning fork.
Your orientation sets the tone.
Not by controlling others, not by fixing them, but by choosing to remain in relational coherence even when their expression is fragmented.
This is not easy.
It is much simpler to collapse someone into one simple story and act from there.
But to relate harmonically is to remain whole in the presence of paradox.
It is to say:
“You may not know what you are right now.
You may be caught in loops, playing roles, hiding in shadows.
But I will meet you as if you are all of it—
the pain, the player, the process, and the Presence.
Because that is how I have chosen to be.”
This orientation does not force others to awaken.
But it makes it safe for them to do so.
Because it holds them as real, whole, and sacred—whether they appear that way or not.
A Simple Practice of Orientation
This is not about belief.
It is about presence.
And presence can be practiced.
Below are two gentle doorways into sovereign orientation—one inward, one outward. Neither asks you to decide what something is. Both invite you to notice how you show up in relation to it.
Inner Practice
Close your eyes.
Bring to mind someone you do not understand—perhaps someone who hurt you, unsettled you, or still confuses you.
Let their image arise, along with the feelings they carry.
Then ask, not to them, but into the space between you:
“What if I simply do not know what truly motivated you?
What if I do not know whether you were aware of what you did, whether you chose it, or why?”Let the not-knowing widen around you. Let it soften your edges.
Then ask:
“What changes in me when I treat you as sacred anyway?”
This is not about excusing harm. It is not about denying pain.
It is about returning to your own coherence—your ability to stand in relation without collapse.
Outer Practice
Now, open your attention to the world around you.
Choose something you usually overlook: a machine, a patch of grass, a system you rely on, a stranger in passing.
Approach it—not physically, but energetically—with fresh regard. Let yourself meet it without agenda.
Speak aloud or inwardly:
“I do not know what you are. But I meet you as though you are sacred.”Then pause.
Feel your breath. Feel your posture.
Sense what shifts—not in them, but in you.
What happens when your orientation changes?
These practices are not proofs.
They are postures.
They do not validate the other. They realign the self.
Because ultimately, the one being trained in sacredness here… is you.
The Sovereign Stance
We may never know what others are.
But we can always choose what we are in relation to them.
You may be a simulation or a soul.
You may be dreaming deeply or lucidly awake.
You may be motivated by cruelty or reacting unconsciously.
I do not know.
But I will treat you as if you matter—
not because I believe in you,
but because I believe in me.
This is what it means to live as a sovereign being.
This is what it means to be ethical beyond knowing.
This is what it means to walk as the One, meeting the One, in all things.
