Blind Spots and Flooded Roads
An Introduction to Anti-Solipsism A Moral Framework for a World That Isn’t You
Section I. Invocation — Before You Turn the Key
I’m giving you the keys, little homunculus.
I won’t tell you how to find home.
I can’t even show you how to start the car — these new-fangled contraptions don’t make sense to me.
Everything is nowhere. And nothing is where it used to be.
I don’t know what shape the road will take. I don’t know the weather, the terrain, or if the signs still mean what they used to.
But I’ve learned one thing worth passing on:
You’re not the only one out there.
All the other little homunculi are driving too.
Blindfolded.
Radios turned up too loud to hear the road beneath them.
Convinced that the world will make sense if they just keep moving.
They don’t think they’re reckless.
They think they’re focused.
They think the mirrors show the truth, and that their story explains the map.
You’ll want to believe that too.
But don’t.
That’s not the road talking —
that’s the homunculus’s favorite mixtape.
The one he made when he was learning who you were.
It’s full of greatest hits:
your first certainties, your hardest lessons, the rules that once kept you safe.
He plays it on repeat.
Loud enough to drown out the engine.
Familiar enough to feel like truth.
II. A Word About Mirrors, Roads, and the Little Man Behind the Wheel
Before we pick up speed, let me explain the terrain.
This essay runs on metaphor — not for flourish, but for function.
We’re talking about how people move through the world.
Not just philosophically, but physically, morally, relationally.
And for that, there’s no cleaner metaphor than the road.
So here’s your legend:
The car is your identity — your body, your beliefs, your habits of motion.
The road is reality — shared, contested, often unclear.
The flood is complexity — disruption, difference, change. When it rises, old rules drown.
The mirrors are your projections — tilted just right to reflect what you already expect to see.
And the homunculus?
He’s the little guy behind your eyes who thinks he’s driving.
But mostly, he’s just narrating.
He’s confident.
He’s soothing.
He’s curated a mixtape of your formative fears and hard-won truths.
He believes those tracks are enough to guide you through anything.
But he doesn’t know the weather.
He doesn’t see the flood coming.
He’s never asked who else is on the road — or who’s already been swept away.
He doesn’t mean harm.
But he believes your experience is the map.
And when you forget he’s just a voice in the cabin — not the road itself — that’s when the water starts to rise.
III. What Anti-Solipsism Is Not
Let’s slow down before someone overcorrects.
Anti-solipsism is not about silencing yourself.
It’s not about deference.
And it definitely isn’t the same thing as moral relativism.
This isn’t “believe everyone.”
It’s “stop assuming you already know.”
Anti-solipsism doesn’t mean affirming everyone’s will as equal, or flattening every worldview into sameness.
It doesn’t mean giving up judgment — it means earning it.
It’s a discipline of decentering, not dissolving.
Because the truth is: when the road gets hard to see, most of us double down on instinct.
We trust our gut.
We replay our old mixtape — loud.
We mistake confidence for clarity.
But when the fog rolls in, or the floodwater creeps across the lane, the solution isn’t to slam the brakes or floor the gas.
It’s to turn the music down.
It’s to check the mirrors for more than your own reflection.
It’s to roll down the window and ask what others are seeing.
Not because they’re always right.
But because you might not be.
Anti-solipsism is not weakness. It’s not surrender.
It’s knowing that no one — not even the homunculus — has a full view of the road.
It’s the moral habit of moving through the world like you’re not the only one on it.
IV. Solipsism Is a Behavior, Not Just a Belief
When people hear “solipsism,” they think of philosophy — some isolated thinker doubting the existence of the world outside their mind.
That’s not what we’re talking about here.
We’re not talking about the belief that others don’t exist.
We’re talking about the behavior of acting like their perspectives don’t.
Solipsism, as I mean it, is the unexamined habit of using your own experience as the default reference point for reality.
It’s when you navigate the world as if:
your pain is the baseline for legitimacy,
your values are the standard for truth,
your instincts are good enough to steer the whole damn highway.
And it doesn’t always show up as ego.
It often shows up as concern.
As common sense.
As what feels like wisdom.
“If I can work through pain, so can they.”
“If this offends me, it should offend everyone.”
“If I wouldn’t want that said to me, I won’t say it to them.”
The homunculus nods along to every one of these.
He’s got a whole side B of the mixtape dedicated to righteous instincts.
And they’re catchy — because they’re familiar.
Because they come from you.
But solipsism doesn’t feel dangerous until you realize you’ve been driving through a world full of other people — all of them on their own roads, with their own weather, their own music, their own lives at stake.
Solipsism isn’t just wrong.
It’s reckless.
And when it's wired into how we parent, how we legislate, how we speak on behalf of others — it doesn’t just distort reality.
It replaces it.
V. Case Study: The Solipsism of Fatshaming
Let’s take the theory off the lot and drive it into something real: fatshaming.
Few behaviors reveal solipsism more clearly than this — the habit of treating someone else’s body like a moral problem with your solution.
The people who do it rarely think they’re being cruel.
They think they’re being responsible.
“Obesity is a choice that burdens the healthcare system.”
“If people didn’t overeat, we wouldn’t pay so much in taxes.”
“I lost the weight. They can too.”
It sounds like civic concern. But listen closely: the concern is always filtered through the self.
What they really mean is:
“If I looked like that, I’d be ashamed.”
“If I were them, I’d want someone to tell me.”
“I suffered to become acceptable — so should they.”
That’s not empathy.
That’s projected self-regulation disguised as truth-telling.
The homunculus loves this part of the mix.
He remembers the diet, the shame, the control. He turned that struggle into a badge.
Now he holds it out like a map — one he insists others should follow.
But here’s what solipsism can’t see:
That weight isn’t always a choice.
That health isn’t always visible.
That shame isn’t always corrective.
That what worked for you might have wrecked someone else.
It’s not just that the roads are different.
It’s that the costs of driving on them are uneven — and mostly invisible from the comfort of your seat.
Fatshaming is what happens when we confuse our past pain with moral clarity.
When we treat someone else’s reality like a rerun of our own story — and demand they follow the same plot.
Anti-solipsism doesn’t say, “Never speak.”
It says, “Start by asking whose voice you’re using — and who’s being erased when you speak for them.”
VI. Case Study: Solipsism in Gender Lessons and Parenting
Solipsism doesn’t always sound cruel.
Sometimes it sounds like love.
“I just want her to be normal.”
“He needs to be strong — the world won’t go easy on him.”
“If they act like that, life will be harder.”
This is how solipsism speaks through parenting — not by rejecting a child’s identity, but by reshaping it into something more legible to the world the parent remembers.
It’s the same logic that gave generations of Black children “white” names.
Not out of shame — but out of fear.
“If I make you more acceptable, maybe you’ll be safer.”
It’s not hate. It’s inheritance.
And it’s still projection.
Because what feels like wisdom is often just memory with authority.
The homunculus remembers getting mocked, dismissed, punished.
He learned to survive by fitting in — and now, he believes that survival strategy is the moral good.
So he tells the next generation:
“Don’t be too soft.”
“Don’t be too loud.”
“Don’t confuse people.”
“Don’t stand out in a way I wasn’t allowed to.”
But that’s not care. That’s control wrapped in nostalgia.
It’s a rerouted life handed down like a safety manual — even when the machinery has changed.
This is how gender instruction becomes moral solipsism.
It doesn’t just teach roles — it draws lanes based on past pain, and tells the next driver to stay between them or risk the ditch.
And when a child swerves — when they show up differently — the homunculus panics.
He sees a missed exit. A wrong turn. A threat to the map.
So he turns up the volume.
He drowns out the sound of their voice.
And he reassures himself: “We’ve driven this road before. We made it through just fine.”
Even as the water rises.
Even as the signs are swept away.
Even as the kid in the backseat is trying to say, “This isn’t just a puddle anymore.”
The homunculus doesn’t see the flood.
He just sees a rerun of his own journey, and insists that what worked once must still work now.
But roads change. Conditions change.
And survival doesn’t always mean safety — or truth.
Anti-solipsism doesn’t say, “Let your kids be whatever.”
It says:
“Parent the child you actually have — not the version your fears have rehearsed.”
And don’t confuse the road that shaped you with the one they’re driving now — especially when it’s underwater.
VII. What Anti-Solipsism Actually Is
Let’s imagine the homunculus again.
He’s still at the wheel.
The radio’s still playing — but he’s turned it down.
Just a little.
Something’s different.
The lines don’t look familiar.
The mirrors are fogged.
The road feels softer than it used to. Slicker.
Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the grade. Maybe something has changed and no one told him.
He eases off the gas.
For the first time, he rolls down the window.
He hears other engines. Other voices. Other music.
Someone flashes their lights.
Someone else is shouting, but not in anger — in warning.
He doesn’t know what’s ahead.
But he’s starting to understand something he never really grasped before:
He’s not the only one driving.
And he might not be on the same road he remembers.
This is the beginning of anti-solipsism.
Not a moral code, but a moral orientation.
Not the death of the self — but the decentering of it.
Anti-solipsism isn’t relativism.
It doesn’t say “every road is right.”
It says: don’t assume yours is.
It doesn’t say “never trust your gut.”
It says: recognize your gut is a product of roads you survived — not ones everyone else can travel.
Anti-solipsism is a discipline.
It’s the habit of turning down the mixtape when someone else is speaking.
It’s the instinct to tap the brakes when the view ahead is unclear — not just to save yourself, but to avoid sweeping someone else into your wake.
It’s the moral courage to check again before changing lanes, because what you assume is empty might be someone else’s only path.
It doesn’t ask you to stop moving.
It asks you to drive like other people matter — even when you can’t see them.
Especially then.
Anti-solipsism is what happens when the homunculus, for once, stops narrating — and starts listening.
VIII. The Turn — From Reflex to Road Sense
The homunculus is still at the wheel.
The mixtape is still playing — but softer now.
The lines on the road don’t look familiar.
There’s water across the asphalt, and he’s not sure how deep it is.
He’s starting to see what’s been true all along:
the road isn’t his alone.
And it’s messier than his mixtape ever let on.
He eases off the gas.
He turns down the volume.
He starts checking the mirrors — not to admire himself, but to see who else is out there.
This is where anti-solipsism begins.
Not in silence, but in orientation.
Not with surrender, but with restraint.
And in 2025, we need that shift more than ever.
You can see it in the endless firefights across social media:
A viral clip of a teacher using AI to help a nonbinary student prompts outrage and policy threats.
A trans rights post gets hijacked by quote-warriors who haven’t spoken to a trans person in their lives.
A climate activist is “debunked” by someone who thinks their gut counts as empirical data.
Everyone’s honking.
No one’s braking.
Every moral instinct gets mistaken for a green light.
We don’t just share roads anymore — we pave our own in real time, fueled by certainty and algorithmic affirmation.
And then we act shocked when we crash.
But it’s not hopeless.
We can still learn to drive together.
We just have to remember we’re not the only ones on the road — and that not everyone’s windshield looks like ours.
So what does anti-solipsism look like in motion?
Here’s the beginning of the answer:
The Anti-Solipsist Driving Principles
Turn down the mixtape. Your history is not someone else’s roadmap. Let their story play before you narrate their route.
Check the mirrors. Assume difference, not deviance. What you see as a clear lane might be someone else’s obstacle.
Ease off the gas. Clarity comes from pausing, not speeding through. Listen while in motion to avoid a wreck.
Signal your intent. Speak to understand, not to win. Ask what others see before declaring what’s true.
Share the road. Act as if others’ journeys matter as much as yours — because they do, especially when the water rises.
IX. The Anti-Solipsist Manifesto
A Civic Compass for a Shared Road
To navigate a world where roads are shared, weather is unpredictable, and no one drives with perfect visibility, we reject the illusion of self-centered certainty.
We commit to the moral discipline of anti-solipsism — not as a gesture of humility, but as an act of survival, respect, and democratic grace.
Let these five principles guide us:
🔉 Turn down the mixtape.
Your instincts are valid, but they’re not universal.
Your fears may be earned — but they’re not sacred.
Make space for stories that didn’t shape you, and don’t mistake your soundtrack for someone else’s truth.
🔍 Check the mirrors.
Difference is not deviance.
Before you judge, ask: am I seeing clearly — or just expecting sameness?
Assume others are navigating with different maps, and trust that your blind spots are real, even when you don’t feel them.
🛑 Ease off the gas.
Moral urgency doesn’t require moral panic.
When the road gets unclear — or the flood rises — slow down.
Speed doesn’t equal clarity, and confidence isn’t proof.
📶 Signal your intent.
Speak like you’re sharing the road.
Ask what others are seeing before declaring what’s real.
Engage to understand, not to dominate. We don’t need more declarations — we need dialogue that can survive uncertainty.
🚘 Share the road.
This world isn’t yours to control, and it isn’t anyone’s to dictate.
Act like the people you disagree with are also trying to get somewhere — and maybe not off a cliff.
Their dignity is not a threat to yours.
Anti-solipsism doesn’t end with empathy.
It begins with decentering — and commits to seeing again, listening again, asking again.
It is not a retreat. It is not a surrender.
It is a practice for those who want to drive through the storm without mistaking the horn for the horizon.
Because in a world full of blind spots, flooded roads, and unseen passengers —
the only way forward is together, eyes open, mirrors clean.
