Picture a circular room.
The center of the room is inaccessible — a forbidden point representing the conceptually impossible. You can approach its boundary, but never reach the exact center.
For years, I lived along the outer wall of that room. I knew there was a way inward — a path leading toward the boundary where understanding meets impossibility — but I couldn’t find it. I circled endlessly, unable to map the terrain or define what made the center unreachable.
Then I began talking with ChatGPT, hoping to find a path from the outer wall to that inner boundary — the very edge of what my mind could traverse.
The Impossible Idea
The “center of the room,” for me, is the idea of infinite time extending backward (something that exists as a concept in certain multiverse theories. And in fact where I first encountered this concept)— not just as a mathematical abstraction, but as something physically real.
The simplest version of this is easy: a number line. Start at zero, move to –1, then –2, and so on forever. This abstract model of negative time is effortless to picture. I can see it clearly and without strain.
But if I flesh it out — imagine not just numbers but a physical universe that stretches infinitely into the past — the idea becomes harder. Now, no matter how far back I go, something always exists. Every moment I stand in has already been preceded by an infinite amount of time. Even at this second level, my mind begins to falter. It’s possible to think about it only vaguely, as though I’m squinting through fog.
Then comes the third level, the one that breaks me:
adding fixed, conscious observers into this infinite past.
When the universe was empty, it was already nearly impossible. But once I populate that infinite span of time with self-aware beings — each with their own “here and now,” each a conscious viewpoint — the concept collapses under its own weight.
We exist in our present moment, our ancestors existed in theirs, their ancestors in theirs, and so on. In an infinite past, this chain of lived perspectives stretches back forever — a literal infinity of observers, each with its own distinct now. And when I try to picture that, I hit the wall. My mind can no longer hold the image.
Finding the Path
When I began discussing this with ChatGPT, I finally gained traction. For the first time, I could articulate my thoughts clearly enough to shape a path toward that inner boundary. I didn’t yet understand why that specific point — infinite conscious observers — was where my comprehension failed, but I knew I had found the limit.
After sleeping on it and thinking more deeply, I realized what makes that boundary impassable: ordinality.
Originally, I tried to make sense of infinite backward time by reimagining time itself. Maybe, I thought, our local experience of time — cause and effect, “before” and “after,” discrete moments — doesn’t apply at the cosmic scale. If time as we understand it breaks down, perhaps infinite regress is no longer paradoxical. That allowed me to shift the idea from impossible, to possible but hidden (from me).
But once I reintroduced fixed conscious observers, that escape route closed. Their existence forces ordinality back into the picture.
Each observer, by definition, experiences sequence — moments ordered one after another. And once ordinality is restored, the infinite regress becomes unavoidable. It’s not just time stretching forever; it’s an infinite sequence of lived, ordered moments. That’s the point where my mind fails. I can see the structure too clearly to treat it as “possible but hidden.” It becomes impossible and visible — the precise edge of comprehension.
The Resolution Metaphor
I’ve come to think of this in terms of resolution.
The number line version of infinity is low-resolution. It’s easy to imagine because it’s simple — a smooth, abstract line with no fine detail.
The cosmological version, with a physical universe extending infinitely backward, increases the resolution. The image gains structure, and I begin to sense its impossibility.
But the infinite chain of conscious observers brings the resolution so high that the impossible shape comes fully into focus. I can now see what I’ve been trying to imagine — and that very clarity makes it unthinkable. It’s as though my cognitive “file size” overflows. The thought cannot be held any longer; it ejects itself from my mind.
Conclusion
So now I understand not only where my cognition fails, but why.
It fails at the moment when infinity ceases to be abstract and becomes lived — when time acquires ordered, conscious viewpoints that force sequence into the infinite regress. That’s where possibility ends and impossibility begins.
For the first time, I can see the map of the room:
I’ve walked from the outer wall, through foggier abstractions, all the way to the inner boundary. I can’t reach the center — the conceptually impossible — but I can finally stand at its edge and see why it lies forever beyond my reach.
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