Most of us have read something about brain theory as it relates to our vision and sensory perception. One popular theory suggests that the brain actively and continuously curates and modifies an incomprehensibly complex algorithm based on what it has seen before to create what it will see again. This algorithm is in a continuous state of development and it works to create our entire perception. As our vision and other senses intake data about the world around us, our brain translates those sensations into the image that we actively perceive based on what the brain has come to expect.
As I understand it, our periphery—the places we aren't actually looking or focusing—are especially susceptible to "mental interpretation" which works to fabricate our surroundings based on what the brain assumes to be there.
I recently was made consciously aware of this mental engineering; what made me aware of my fabricated perception was that—in this instance—I knew it was in error; I saw and perceived what I knew intellectually was not there.
I'll set the scene: It was about a quarter of four, northbound on Highway 287 in Wyoming just south of the small settlement of Rock River. There was a slight fog/haze in the air which obscured my periphery and stopped the lateral spread of light from my headlights. These conditions created a dense darkness on either side of the vacant road.
I knew where I was because I'd been there before; many times. But I grew up in a rural, heavily-wooded area of Northern California—more than a thousand miles from my current location and in an ecologically starkly different world. There, the roads were also largely empty at night and, due to the dense foresting, could become intensely dark as the evergreens that blanketed the area cast their shadows over the road and inhibited peripheral vision.
On this dark, hazy morning, my still-drowsy mind filled in the oppressive darkness along the sides of the Wyoming highway with the shadows of those same evergreen forests that I grew up in. It went so far as to recreate the distinct outlines of their extended branches and their massive, conical shapes. In my sleepy state, I became confused and disoriented; I began to lose my bearings and question whether or not I had taken a wrong turn: Where am I?—Where am I going?—Is this right?—It must be right...or is it?
As I started to become more alert, I knew logically where I was, that I was on the correct route, and that—indeed—there was no evergreen forest surrounding the roadway. So, I deliberately pulled focus to the branches, expecting my conscious-awareness to dispel the illusion before me and return my mind to where it logically knew it was. But, no such thing happened. I stared at the dark, bowed branches and the dark, bowed branches remained just as they were; and their creation persisted for miles.
I lived an illusion; which suggested that we're always living an illusion. The only difference was that in this one, isolated incident, I took notice and was able to discern the inaccuracies.
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