My initial interest in dreams came from a nightmare.

The door creaked as I padded across the pale fiber carpet, hands clammy and pupils dilated, arms spread in want of my mother’s warm reassurance.

With my face finally buried in the folds of her sweater, fingers stretching the limits of its fabric, my breath gradually began to rise and fall with only slight inconsistencies.

Then she told me a story: she swept her fingers across my wet cheeks and spoke of Chang Tzu, an ancient Chinese Philosopher whose unique, mental excursion sparked centuries of metaphysical contemplation.

It goes like this: One night, Tzu dreamt he was a butterfly, flying about in utter bliss and completely unbeknownst to the identity of Chang Tzu. Waking up in human form, the philosopher began to feel uncertain about his true identity. He doubted whether it was Chang Tzu dreaming that he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it was Chang Tzu.

Although the story had undoubtedly distracted me from the night’s darker images, I tossed and turned in the hands of a restless and interrupted sleep, lids fluttering with thoughts of galloping, swimming, flying.

But contrary to the overwhelming feeling of relief usually associated with the welcoming signs of morning, I opened my eyes to an even deeper sense of insecurity; how could I ever know the validity of my experience? How could I trust that this room, with its cotton plush pillows and Mia Hamm posters, was reality? Just like Chang Tzu, I began to doubt whether it was truly “me” awakening to the contents of the world, or if I was simply the beginning of someone else’s dream.

While I no longer live with this perpetual fear, Chang Tzu’s wonderings still resonate as important reflections on the soundness of perspective. In his sleep, Tzu possessed no doubt as to whether or not he was a butterfly; only after awakening could he objectively judge the bizarreness of the situation. But Tzu didn’t see it as bizarre. He remembered it with such vividness and realism that his own self-existence was called into question as a result. The philosopher could no longer justify the “realness” of his awakened state due to his realistic experience inside the fleeting butterfly dream.

Just like Tzu, we dream; each and every one of us recognizes the cyclical spaces of time where our minds take control and transport us to an uninhibited, “unreal,” world. But what makes us so sure that this “unreal” world is so easily distinguishable from our own? After all, the same filters that are creating these bizarre and utterly “unrealistic” images serve to create those of which we unhesitatingly believe as true. How can we trust that our minds are solely capable of bestowing us with clear, untainted, and subjectively untouched versions of reality?

The conflicts and problems of today’s world directly result from the different filters in which individuals, groups, countries, and races perceive their own reality. Our ability to empathize requires us to step out from our comfortable ways of seeing things and attempt to embody the experiences of others. But similar to the confusion Chang Tzu felt when considering an alternate reality, at some fundamental level, we all must acknowledge that the way we perceive life while awake may still be affected by the underlying motives of our subconscious. In my opinion, an objective view of any situation is near impossible, hindered by the complex array of subjective moments, individualized emotions, and personalized experiences that form our separate selves.

I’m not saying we should surrender to the reality of our incredibly subjective minds, but rather, face others with an awareness towards the limitations of its abilities. Only through this essential recognition can humans dream of a peaceful, more empathic future, and move away from the dangerous depths of darker nightmares.