This text reflects on the nature of the inner experience and its inaccessibility—both to the self and to others. Blending personal narrative with theoretical fragments, it explores how meaning is formed, obscured, and shared across emotional, material, and relational dimensions. Rather than offering conclusions, it traces the tensions between expression and interpretation, self and other, language and gesture. Through this inquiry, the work suggests that understanding may emerge not through clarity, but through the shared experience of not knowing. 11112024



would you love me if I turned into a fish? 


INTRODUCTION

Through this text, I explore my interpretation of inner experience. It is my first attempt to detail a speculative framework that might explain the phenomenon of a self. The inner world is an illusion—shaped by complex mechanisms of the mind and influenced by external factors. While reality exists, I can only experience a version of it.

This text explores various notions of phenomenal experience, sparked by a desire to share it with another: my friend. Its underlying objective is to consider a method for sharing the inner world; what it finds is something closer to a moment of wonder.

Before discussing the precious role of friendship and other ideas, I first need to clarify the terminology I use throughout. Many expansive concepts are given specific names to maintain simplicity and avoid redundancy. There are numerous theories about what the ‘self’ is or is not; I make no attempt to account for each. Instead, I focus on two theories of perception that frame and inform the version of the inner world I refer to here.

The first, rooted in neuroscience and philosophy of mind, presents the outermost layer of the inner world as a tunnel. The second, grounded in psychoanalysis and structuralism, emphasises the function of the second layer: the fantasy of unity. Two chapters introduce and expand on these ideas.

The chapter that follows incorporates intersubjectivity into the scheme of the inner world. For obvious reasons, this exploration is shadowed by the influence of another on our sense of self. The final chapter turns toward concepts like the art object and the aforementioned moment of wonder.

Having laid out my intentions, I want to clarify that this text mostly attempts to map the problematic of sharing the inner world with another. It does not explore the full potential of that idea. Throughout the text, I refer to “another”—the friend—whose identity is both specific and loose. In many ways, I write about a particular friend; however, my sentiments extend more broadly toward friendship in general.

What follows is not a linear argument, but a layered inquiry—one that circles, stretches, and returns.


WHERE IS THE TUNNEL TO THE SPIRIT WORLD?

The exploration of the inner world begins with understanding its framework. One theory that has permanently altered my conceptualisation of reality is Thomas Metzinger’s Ego Tunnel. According to his theory, the self is not a thing but a process: a transparent self-model created by the brain.

The self lacks intrinsic essence, and what we experience is an immersive, representational simulation of reality: “the ongoing process of conscious experience is not so much an image of reality as a tunnel through reality.”¹ Due to the limitations of the human senses, we experience reality through a filter, unable to access a more complete version. And even though we might accept that our world-model is merely a representation, “we can experience it only as a given and never as constructed.”² The metaphor of the tunnel encompasses both its restrictive nature and its function as a filter. Not only is the content of our conscious experience false, but the “sense of being there itself is a simulation.”³ In my adapted framework, the first layer of the inner world is rendered as more of a constructed interface than an authentic engagement with reality.

The tunnel metaphor is both significant and poignant; however, I want to develop something inspired by it but slightly altered to suit my own ideas. To shift away from Metzinger’s simulation and consolidate a tunnel more fitting for my investigation, I turn to Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away (2001). The story follows a young girl, Chihiro, as she enters a mysterious, magical world—a hidden reality—that fundamentally transforms her perspective. From the opening scene, we follow the family’s car as it takes a supposed shortcut through a mountain path… eventually leading to a tunnel. While Chihiro is apprehensive about going in, she chooses to follow her parents rather than stay behind alone.

Once through the tunnel, the family arrives at a sunny field and, beyond it, a deserted town filled with the alluring smell of food. Guided by their olfactory senses, the parents seat themselves at an abandoned stall and begin to indulge. Despite their efforts to share it with her, Chihiro refuses and explores on her own. She is soon confronted by Haku, who urges her to leave.

When she returns, Chihiro discovers that her parents have been turned into pigs. Unable to find her way back home or wake from this nightmare, she is forced to navigate a world she does not understand; her previous world-model is constantly questioned and reshaped. Everything in this new world is strange and unnerving—peculiar creatures, unfamiliar rules, shifting landscapes—all of which force her to adapt. To save her parents, she takes a job at the bathhouse run by spirits, confronting one challenge after another.

Chihiro’s journey mirrors the concept of the tunnel: the idea that the self is constructed. She is forced to adopt a new identity under the name Sen, but she must not forget her real name if she ever wants to return to her world. The content of the simulation is the self: “the internal image of the person-as-a-whole.”⁴ Sen is created as a measure of this new world—a new simulation. Of course, Metzinger’s theory doesn’t operate in exactly this way, but the example helps demonstrate how I apply his logic to the structure of the inner world.

Sen’s shift in identity symbolises a new mode of perception. It calls for an entirely new framework of representation because “(correctly) representing something is what knowing is.”⁵ As Chihiro walked through the literal tunnel, her metaphorical tunnel was disrupted. Though she remained in the same body—experiencing the world through the same senses—her previous world-model no longer sufficed. It became inadequate in this new space. She required a new model to navigate the spirit world, one symbolised under the name Sen. This reconfigured world-model is not the result of Sen’s conscious effort, but a natural consequence of the brain responding to a new environment and its inhabitants: “You do not see it. But you see with it.”⁶ Even though her perspective of reality has changed, she must not forget her previous one if she hopes to return to it.

Sen’s inner world is significantly influenced by others. The simulation is not an isolated space—her friends remind her not to forget her real name. Chihiro is ultimately able to find her way back home because of the friends she made along the way. However, this influence is reciprocal: Chihiro also helps Haku remember his real name. The importance of friendship to the inner world will be expanded later in the text, but it is already clear that these dynamics cannot be isolated from one another. The influence of the friend on the inner world is not one-way—it is reciprocal.

Spirited Away illustrates that key aspects of the inner world are not fixed but dynamic and evolving. While the perceptual filter through which we experience reality may be fixed, our world-models are shaped by both internal mechanisms and external encounters.

At the end of the film, Chihiro is able to walk back through the tunnel and return to the normal world.

To reiterate: I imagine the inner world as layered. The outermost layer can be explained through the tunnel. It is what filters reality and constructs our general understanding of the world—our world-model. It is the tunnel that grants me the function of me and I. I can never become aware of how it works, nor can I overwrite it. I am simply a result of it. Within the tunnel, other mechanisms are at play—most notably, the fundamental fantasy.


IT’S ALL JUST A FANTASY

If the tunnel provides the simulated self, the fundamental fantasy is the unconscious narrative that structures it. This is the second layer of the inner world I want to explore.

To solidify the illusion of selfhood, I turn to Jacques Lacan’s theory of the subject. He argues that subjectivity is rooted in a fundamental fantasy, which acts both as the shell and the continuous structuring force of the self, mediated through the ego-ideal. This process is best illustrated by the mirror stage, where the “image in which we first recognise ourselves is a misrecognition.”⁷ When the infant first perceives its reflection in the mirror, it mistakenly identifies with the unified image it sees. Lacan calls this projection the ideal ego. It marks a tragic moment, in which the subject begins to pursue an image of wholeness that it can never truly attain.

This méconnaissance is foundational: subjectivity begins with the fantasy of unity, a fiction that stands in contrast to the fragmented and unstable reality of inner life. The ideal ego becomes a persistent point of reference, though it is not fixed: “The mirror stage is repeated indefinitely throughout one’s existence,”⁸ since our self-perception is constantly mediated by our imaginary relations with others. Each time a new ego-ideal forms, the ideal ego is reshaped, widening the gap between the image and the self. This gap generates anxiety and tension, but it can never be resolved. There will always be a lack.

In the architecture of the inner world, the tunnel functions as the interface through which the subject engages with reality, while the fantasy functions as a defence. It shields the subject from fully realising that its inner life is founded on illusion. Within this fantasy, desire is organised—a desire that is inherently elusive. It emerges from within but always points outward, toward things I imagine will make me more me. In Lacanian thought, desire is never fulfilled, because it is rooted in lack. Language reinforces this fantasy, absorbing it into the Symbolic register. The “I” that I speak can never fully signify the ideal ego—it is already mediated, and language can never fully capture inner experience.

Thus far, we have touched on the Imaginary (the mirror image, the ideal ego) and the Symbolic (the network of language and social structures). What remains is the Real, which “resists symbolisation and representation.”⁹ To encounter the Real is to glimpse, however briefly, the scaffolding of the fantasy as fantasy. But the fantasy, ever protective, always draws the veil once more. The psyche protects us from this terrifying recognition: that reality is, in a fundamental sense, pretend.

Returning to the aim of this text—to share the inner world—what I would be offering a friend is not a truth beneath the surface, but a set of fictions. It’s not that something lies hidden, waiting to be uncovered. Beyond the fantasy, there is nothing. The fundamental fantasy sits at the junction of the three registers,¹⁰ shaping the very form of our inner experience. This echoes the earlier metaphor of the tunnel: just as Metzinger argues that conscious experience is a simulation, Lacan proposes that the self is a fantasy of wholeness. Where the tunnel generates a functional world-model, the fantasy generates a protective fiction. Both are filters. Both are illusions we live by.

However, Lacan’s narrative of the self is not without its omissions.

So far, I’ve deliberately set aside aspects of Lacan’s theory that rely entirely on the masculine subject. But I want to pause here to acknowledge the absence—indeed, the erasure—of the feminine subject. While the formation of subjectivity is shaped by a constellation of drives and forces, “the human process of becoming conscious of oneself as subject is strongly or entirely dominated by a masculine notion of subjectivity.”¹¹ In this schema, woman becomes “a ‘symptom’ for the man.”¹² The feminine is not just neglected—it is structurally excluded. She is positioned outside the Symbolic order, unable to ever fully enter it.

The Lacanian subject is constituted through identification with the ideal ego and sustained through the fantasy—but this structure assumes a unity the feminine subject cannot wholly occupy. It seems to me that the feminine subject’s fantasy contains a crack. And through that crack, she sees.

Lacan’s theory has shaped the core of this second layer of the inner world. The fantasy is a force that wraps itself around lack and gives it form. It fills the void with story—with fictions. These fictions prevent the subject from recognising that beyond the inner world, there may be nothing at all.

Still, even with the tunnel and the fantasy in place, the structure of the inner world remains incomplete. These theories present a largely solitary subject. What they fail to account for is the influence of the other, the relational dynamics that reshape the inner world from within. In the next chapter, I turn to the role of intersubjectivity, drawing especially on Luce Irigaray to explore the importance of friendship—and the space it opens within us.

This is an ode to my friends—the ones I will always be curious about. The ones for whom I question the very fabric of the inner world.

The potency of friendship extends far beyond curiosity: “Friendship is the desubjectification at the very heart of the most intimate sensation of the self.”¹³ Friendship influences our perception of self. Through this connection, my awareness is divided and drawn outward—towards the other, towards my friend. It tests the limits of corporeal boundaries; the intimacy of friendship renders the body porous: “The point at which I perceive my existence as sweet, my sensation goes through a consenting which dislocates and deports my sensation towards the friend, towards the other self.”¹⁴ It is in this sharing of selves that the traditional concept of subjectivity is challenged and transformed.

This exploration of intersubjectivity is framed by Luce Irigaray’s concept of eros, as I believe aspects of her theory extend beyond sexual relations to deep, affective friendships—for example, wonder and touch.

In Irigaray’s theory, eros is an opening to the other: a form of desire that exists in the space between two subjects, “a conjunction of radical otherness and autonomy on the one hand and desire and intimacy on the other.”¹⁵ This dynamic stems from the recognition of the other as wholly different, yet equally valid. While eros traditionally functions within sexual contexts, its relational logic can be applied to friendship. In this space, the friend is not an extension of myself but a separate and precious subject, whose otherness is celebrated rather than subdued.

Eros, in both sexual and non-sexual forms, enables the transformation of the inner world. The self is not fixed but engaged in continuous, dynamic interaction with the other. In friendship, this transformation unfolds through both wonder and touch. Wonder is the spark—the feeling of being drawn toward the other, a “vulnerability to the unexpected seduction by the other, to be drawn out of themselves.”¹⁶ Touch, in this sense, elevates the friend beyond physical presence; it becomes a form of caress, a “non-possessive mode of touching the other.”¹⁷ These interactions become a transformative force: the friend does not merely touch the body—they reach into the inner world. This process exceeds emotional vulnerability or corporeal intimacy; it enables an openness through which the boundaries of the inner world are redrawn in relation to the other. In this shared space between two individuals, each is invited to reconsider their own identity—an identity which, as I’ve argued throughout, is ultimately fantastical and illusory.

To illustrate how I apply these concepts—intersubjectivity, wonder, and touch—to the workings of the inner world, I turn to one of Hayao Miyazaki’s films, Ponyo (2008), where the transformative power of friendship is beautifully illustrated by an unlikely pair.

The story begins with Ponyo, a magical fish-girl, escaping from the watchful, possessive gaze of her father—a human turned sea wizard. With the help of her many little sisters, she flees and takes refuge on a jellyfish that carries her to the sea’s surface. There, she spots a house perched atop a hill. A little boy runs down from the house to the shore.

Ponyo, meanwhile, becomes entangled in a fishing net, and in her struggle to escape, she gets trapped in a glass jar. She swims closer to the shore, hoping the boy will notice her. Sosuke wades into the water and rescues her, setting into motion an adventure that will transform both of their lives.


Their friendship begins with wonder: a shared curiosity and openness to the unknown. The spark between them is ignited through genuine affection, which draws them beyond the ordinary and into a magical, more connected existence. The act of touch plays a crucial role: when Sosuke frees Ponyo from the jar, his finger is cut, and she licks the blood. Two things happen: the wound is instantly healed by her magic, and Ponyo’s very essence is transformed by Sosuke’s blood.

Sosuke’s world, once anchored in the ordinary, is reshaped by the magic of the sea. Ponyo’s life, drawn from the depths, rises into the light—into warmth, care, and quiet attention. Later, during a terrifying storm, Ponyo (now human) takes refuge in Sosuke’s home. There, he patiently guides her through the unfamiliar world of humans, attending to her with a non-possessive, nurturing touch—one that supports rather than instructs, and invites rather than demands. Their interactions unfold without coercion, without the pressure to know or to define the other fully. Instead, what is offered is presence: the space to grow, and to become.

One subtle but significant example of how this friendship reshapes their inner experiences is the moment Ponyo receives her name. When Sosuke first finds her, he affectionately names her “Ponyo,” even though she already had a name—Brunhilde—given by her father. As the story unfolds, she embraces the new name wholeheartedly, introducing herself as Ponyo and insisting on it even when her father uses her original one. In choosing Sosuke’s name for her, she actively redefines herself through their bond—not out of obligation, but through an act of joyful affiliation. It is a small yet meaningful shift in identity, one that signals how her inner world has been transformed through friendship: not by force, but by a shared moment of connection that allows her to become more fully herself.

Ultimately, Ponyo is a story about how innocent, mutual friendship—rooted in respect and admiration—can transform individuals and reshape their inner worlds. Even though this example is quite literal, it depicts the transformative power of intersubjectivity with remarkable clarity.

First, there is the boundary: the tunnel—a filter through which we experience reality, evolved not to reveal the world in its richness, but to ensure survival. Then, there is fantasy—a protective mechanism that creates the illusion of a coherent self. Finally, within this fantasy, there is the friend. And the friend carries a quiet power—one that does not dominate or control, but honours the other’s otherness. A friend creates a space that is both safe and shared.

In the following chapter, I will turn to the role of art objects—how they, too, might participate in this shared space, shaping and being shaped by the inner world.


A MOMENT BETWEEN US

This final section traces my evolving framework of the inner world and the importance of friendship and the art object in producing a culmination—a moment of wonder. This exploration is not an endpoint, but a weaving together of various threads of thought, each contributing something distinct to an ongoing, open-ended process. There remains much potential yet to be actualised in this idea; what follows is only one iteration.

At its core, the objective is to share the inner world.

When I use the term inner world in this context, I am referring to the cognitive mechanisms through which I experience reality. It is the imposed framework that separates me from the world itself. This inner world is not neutral—it is constructed, unconsciously, through layers of fiction that act as a defence mechanism. These fictions distract from the direct experience of being, veiling the void that might lie beyond the illusion. Within this constructed space, the presence of an external force—friendship—can disrupt the isolation. My attempts to share the inner world take form in art objects, created through abstraction.

When I try to communicate with a friend, language often falls short. Words can rarely encapsulate the complexity or depth of emotional experience. Even with access to more languages or richer vocabularies, there is still no guarantee that what I mean will be understood as intended: “We can never be sure if our communication was successful; there is no certainty about what actually it was we shared.”¹⁸ This limitation led me to seek other means of connection.

Creating an art object—another kind of expression—proved more successful than language ever was. I never anticipated the impact this gesture might have, but it cemented my belief that art may step in where words falter. Though there are no restrictions on form, in my case these objects tend to dwell somewhere between sculpture and painting. I intentionally refrain from detailing specific materials or techniques; to tie this process too closely to a particular practice would narrow its potential. A general reflection on materiality is more generative, allowing for broader application.

This brings me to Donald Winnicott’s concept of potential space. He suggests this is a space that exists neither wholly within the self nor fully in the external world, but somewhere in between.¹⁹ It is where the inner experience of the individual meets the outer world, enabling emotional expression. The creation of art objects, tangible yet abstract, might exist in this liminal zone. The art object, as a gesture of sharing, teeters on the edge of Winnicott’s transitional object: “It is at once a piece of real experience and a fiction.”²⁰ It represents not only my intentions, but also something unrepresentable—the inner world itself.

Let me clarify some of the terms involved. Abstraction, as a process, refers to “an operation involving extraction or generalisation […] an act of selection or withdrawal from the hurly-burly of concrete particularity in order to get the essence that composes but lies beyond it.”²¹ Abstraction is not only an intellectual operation; it is inherently material. The means of representation—texture, form, colour—are what give abstraction its affective potential and allure. It allows for the making of objects that, while abstract, contain within them the possibility of pointing toward the unknowable. The inner world, after all, is a speculative construct. It doesn’t exist in any measurable sense. Yet through abstraction, we might refer to it.

Where the term mental objects refers to conceptual constructs used to understand the world²², I intend to use art objects to describe attempts to externalise abstract internal experiences. I chose art rather than, for example, concrete to signal this difference: concrete objects might suggest a solidity, or an immediacy of meaning, that art objects do not. Art implies interpretation. The art object is not complete until it is encountered. Its meaning unfolds between the object and the viewer. It is this expectation of engagement that gives the art object its potential to communicate.

Leading up to a moment of wonder, there are three key aspects to consider. Each leans into the next, guiding both the giver (the maker of the object) and the taker (the intended recipient or viewer) toward an encounter with something beyond representation. The theories informing these aspects are not used in their entirety, but borrowed from in fragments to build a tentative interpretation of the process at play.

The making of an art object through abstraction is, for me, a focus on texture, form, and colour. It is the attempt to give shape to the elusive inner world and imbue it with meaning. Irigaray’s writing initially explained my pull towards texture—it now informs that decision. The emotional distance created by the inability to share inner experience is mediated by touch. What language cannot reach is soothed by a caress. In my work, this becomes preserved in the surface of the object. The textures emerge as sites of intersubjectivity—where affect is transferred, felt, and possibly received.

Why might the art object succeed where language fails? One explanation lies in Carl Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious: “this part of the unconscious is not individual but universal […] it has contents and modes of behaviour that are more or less the same everywhere and in all individuals.”²³ It is populated by archetypes, “universal images that have existed since the remotest times.”²⁴ These may be what enable the art object to speak across subjectivities. The viewer, even if not the intended taker, may recognise and resonate with the emotions embedded in the object through these shared, hidden resources. If communication occurs, it may be because these assumed instincts²⁵ allow the object to be decoded. However, even if transmission is successful, the inner world remains fundamentally unsharable—only ever gestured toward through representation.

The final aspect is rooted in aesthetic action, emphasising the intentionality embedded in the art object and the reciprocal engagement it invites. The giver and the taker perform a shared act—not of delivering a fixed message, but of exploring what that performance might mean. As Klinger writes: “The action binds me not in a shared performance of a shared concept, but rather in a shared performance of figuring out what it is we thus perform together.”²⁶ In this shift—from attempting communication to acknowledging its impossibility—there is an opening to a moment of wonder.

It is impossible to truly materialise or correctly represent the inner world. What can be shared is the attempt. In this impossibility, the giver and taker become co-performers. And rather than finding resolution, they might “irresolution as its point.”²⁷ The moment of wonder does not denote a unit of time. If it even happens, it is a shift in the framework of the inner world itself—a transformation that lasts until another comes along. But such meaning can only emerge within relationships built on a deep curiosity about the other. It is the wonder that fuels everything.

One such relationship is friendship. I have been lucky enough to experience it.


AFTERMATH

In tracing the inner world across these chapters, I have not sought to define it, but to gesture towards its contours. The inner world is not something to be mapped, resolved, or displayed—it resists these gestures. Instead, it emerges in fragments, in speculative representations, in art objects that hover between communication and concealment.

Throughout, I have drawn from various theoretical frameworks—sometimes contradictory, often incompatible. But this project is not an attempt to resolve those tensions or synthesise them into a coherent system. I have taken what resonates, left aside what does not, and allowed my own interpretation to lead. This is not a work of theory, but a work that lets theory drift into it, selectively, as part of the texture.

The works I create are not substitutes for language, but responses to its insufficiencies. They hold within them a desire—not to be understood, but to be encountered. If wonder is possible, it is not because something has been successfully communicated, but because two people remain present despite the impossibility of doing so.

This is not the end. There is more I do not know how to say.