The Perversion of Common Sense

Common Sense in a Fractured World

I’ve often found myself thinking about a place in the California desert known as Slab City. A lawless patch of land once used as a military training ground—Camp Dunlap—now repurposed by those seeking an alternative way of life. No buildings remain, just concrete foundations, and yet people have built a different kind of structure there—one based on trust, self-reliance, and the bonds formed through shared struggle.

I’ve watched videos over the years of Slab City’s inhabitants. One guy, with a modest setup of solar panels, offers free power to others wanting to game or watch TV. A small oasis in the sand, where coffee and community are freely given. Then there’s the woman who runs the makeshift library—handed down from a man who lovingly built it up. There’s no formal check-out system. Just trust. Come, take a book, bring it back when you can. That’s the rhythm of things there.

Life in Slab City isn’t easy, of course. The challenges mirror those of street dwellers in other parts of the world. But within that hardship is something deeply human—strangers crossing paths, forming bonds, and, if fortune allows, finding peace in simplicity. A frugal life, yes—but a real one. I often wonder if those same faces are still there. Do they work nearby? Have they managed to stay rooted in that raw kind of freedom?

This place often reminds me of Nomadland, the film that follows a woman living out of her van, drifting between temporary jobs, finding brief refuge in trailer parks and desert gatherings. There’s a purity in that kind of camaraderie. No one’s selling anything. No one’s trying to impress. Just people surviving, helping, being. That’s what real connection looks like.

Contrast that with the hyper-industrialized culture many of us come from—endlessly buying, scrolling, distracted. We’re told we’re “free,” but it’s not the kind of freedom our ancestors would recognize.

Here in the Philippines, and across many parts of Asia, I’ve experienced a very different mindset. One that feels deeply connected to the earth and its rhythms. People here—young and old alike—know how to grow food, prepare it, and live in harmony with their environment. It struck me quickly how strong their knowledge is. Not theoretical—practical. Intimate.

In the West, we’ve lost that. We eat food we don’t understand, made by people we’ll never meet. We’ve outsourced even the most essential skills for the sake of convenience. Meanwhile, malls here sit mostly empty. Not because the culture rejects them—many simply can’t afford them. Processed food in these malls often costs twice as much as it does at the market. Meat is priced for the wealthy or the tourist. The rest rely on their farms, their animals, their ingenuity.

It’s humbling. The influence of past empires—Spanish, Japanese, American—still lingers, but the people have held onto something pure, something resolute. There’s a cultural soul here that no colonizer could erase.

This isn’t unique to the Philippines. India comes to mind—its complex dance with British colonialism—and Wales, closer to home, long exploited for its coal and minerals by English rule. The scars remain, but so does the spirit. The Welsh language, their stories, their lands—they’ve endured. Independence is not just political; it’s cultural, emotional, ancestral.

All over the world, you find the residue of exploitation—India’s beaches where workers dismantle rusting ships for scraps. African children scavenging through burning e-waste from Western nations. The cycle is repeated everywhere: the powerful extracting from the powerless. And the local governments? Often just as complicit, replicating the corruption they once fought against.

Modern propaganda doesn’t need armies—it has algorithms. Social media now fuels the illusion that things are improving, that philanthropic billionaires are saving the world. But look deeper and you’ll find a different truth. One of death, displacement, and manipulation. The image is polished. The reality is grotesque.

We’ve lost our collective sense of what’s real. Common sense—once a guiding force—is buried beneath distractions. The tools we once used to discern truth are rusted. Narrative after narrative floods our senses until we no longer trust our own. Our instincts—once sharp and immediate—have dulled.

Where once we responded to what we could see and feel directly, we now react to filtered opinions, distorted media, and weaponized information. This disconnection is no accident—it’s designed. It weakens the human spirit and strengthens the systems that seek to control it.

Even questioning these narratives is dangerous. Those who do are painted as unstable, paranoid, or conspiratorial. But questioning isn’t paranoia—it’s survival. When you step back and view the whole picture, it becomes clear: this isn’t just about economics or politics. It’s spiritual.

We are being drawn into a false world. A digital illusion where common sense has no place, and emotional truth is algorithmically replaced. We’re told how to feel, how to think, even who to be. The machine doesn’t want us to reflect—it wants us to react.

AI plays a role in this too. While it offers tools and conveniences, it also threatens to erode another uniquely human trait—creativity. As more content is generated by emotionless scripts and pattern-recognition models, the soulful voice of human expression risks being drowned out. Creativity becomes commodified, streamlined, empty.

So what is left?

Common sense. That old, quiet thing inside us. The instinct to question, to observe, to resist. To live in the real world—not the curated one. To trust our experiences, not just the headlines. To value human connection, not just online engagement.

It’s not too late to reclaim it. But we have to see first. Really see.

And maybe places like Slab City—raw, imperfect, and forgotten—hold more truth than the glossy facades we’re sold each day. Maybe that’s where the future begins again.

Thanks for reading.