Generatology™

Excerpt, Introduction
Acceptance: Boundaries—Trajectories of Modern Drift

1. Rhythm and Discipline

Had we been born on a planet with 40-hour solar days, human civilization would not exist.

We often take the 24-hour day as a given—as if it simply corresponds to the Earth spinning once. But in truth, a full rotation is 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 4 seconds. The missing 4 minutes account for Earth’s orbital drift: each day it travels 0.9856° around the sun, so it must rotate a little further for the sun to appear in the same place.

Sunrise and sunset are not just phenomena. They are information. Rhythm is a language. And in this language, time was never linear.

Our shared notion of “24 hours” comes from ancient Egypt, who split daylight and night into 12 parts each. But the true solar day fluctuates by up to 15 minutes annually—and the human circadian rhythm averages 24 hours and 12 minutes. Each person’s internal clock is slightly longer than both solar and sidereal time.

To flatten this undulation, we paved the sun’s irregular path with the asphalt of abstraction. We convinced ourselves each day is the same length. Standard time is a patchwork—an imposed smoothing of cosmic noise. Every clock is slightly wrong. Because it aligns to other clocks, not to the universe, and not to the body.

We pride ourselves on adaptation. But relocating to the polar extremes of day and night does not recalibrate our inner clocks. No animal resets its rhythm to fit geography. Some species maintain circadian lags of ten hours or more across millennia.

So what, exactly, have humans adapted to—that we’ve survived this long?

The earliest human remains have been found along the East African Rift—the so-called cradle of Homo sapiens—as well as in West Asia, North Africa, South and Southeast Asia, and Southern Europe. What links these regions is not abundance, but predictability.

They lie in latitudes where seasons shift distinctly, sunlight is traceable, and cold and warmth alternate in patterns stable enough to plant, herd, hunt, shelter, and worship.

Civilization is not born from surplus. It emerges from rhythm. Without sunrise and sunset, there is no discernible “world.” Without a world, there is no language. And without language, the subject cannot form. Human beings were not the ones who adapted. We are what rhythm selected.

But once absorbed into capital, fitness became competition. Selection became elimination. Wake at 9. Lunch at 12. Meeting at 1:30. Summarize by 3. Finalize by 5. Those who internalize this structure are called “strong.” And only the strong are deemed fit to survive.

We feel perpetually unworthy—not productive enough, not useful enough. Like the 12 minutes lost each day to sidereal drift, our freedom is shaved away by systems we built for our own convenience.

Can we reclaim the body’s natural rhythm in the age of systems? That is this book’s question—and its invitation.

To publish this book, I had to fill out government forms across multiple countries—each one a relic of the last century, every interface and submission flow designed like a proposal to someone who has no interest in knowing who you are. Our frustration with bureaucracy rarely stems from the task itself, but from what it demands we surrender—our sense of agency the moment we enter its logic.

Institutions offer options, but not choice. What you think of as a decision is often a decision already made—taught, conditioned, normalized.

This book does not seek to dismantle systems. Stability matters. Systems are what civilizations congeal into after centuries of negotiation. But something has gone off-balance. We have traded too much of the self for too little freedom. That is the ethical tilt of our time. We forget: Systems are not the source of civilization. They are its byproduct. Rhythm—human rhythm—is what birthed civilization in the first place.

If we cannot see the structure, we are ruled by it. Only by exposing its logic can we begin to reclaim our own rhythm—and from there, initiate the next phase of human design. Following rhythm is not a wellness slogan. It is how we recognize the self and enact new realities through free will.

This book attempts both: to dissect systemic structures, and to propose something strange yet difficult to deny—that human behavior and the design of the cosmos may follow the same structural logic.

2. Three-Dimensionality

When we “recall” something, we don’t rewind from the most recent moment. Instead, we access memory through a non-linear retrieval system. Consider these two examples: “Do you remember the most vivid moment from the last holiday?” Or: a melody from years ago suddenly surfaces in your mind, uninvited.

There’s a structural difference between the two. The first is prompted by a question—an initiating force that activates a stored node in memory. The second arises with no trigger—no cause, no context.

When someone’s thinking is called “scattered” or “jumpy,” they’re often accused of being illogical. But in truth, human cognition is three-dimensional. Discontinuous thinking is not a flaw—it is the natural rhythm of a cosmically-designed animal.

We draw diagrams and mind maps as a way to compress three-dimensional perception into a visible, two-dimensional format. Without this compression, we can’t speak, record, or organize thought. Language must be linear: one word must follow another, a subject must attach to a verb to complete a sentence.

But observe your vision now. Your eyes are focused on this word—scanning line by line—yet outside that focus, you perceive the whole. Your hands, the edges of the screen or book, the ambient light—not just seen, but sensed.

Your body registers tension in the skin, a low-pitched noise in the distance, the temperature of air passing through your nose. Dozens of thoughts, memories, and images flash through your mind. And yet, you’re pulled back—again—into this linear flow of text.

Without linear language, we can’t structure “thought.” We believe we use language, but it is language that structures us.

Language convinces us everything is sequential—because milliseconds must follow milliseconds. But time is not a smooth line from A to B. It stretches and contracts like rubber.

When we feel time as fast or slow, thick or thin, when we recall past events or imagine futures in sudden leaps—we are sensing time not as a line, but as a three-dimensional topology.

Yes—when a three-dimensional creature begins to feel, time stops being linear.

In 2020, astrophysicist Francesco Vazza and neuroscientist Alberto Feletti published a paper in Frontiers in Physics. They found that the human neural connectome and the cosmic web of galaxy formation share an 80% structural similarity. Despite differing by 27 orders of magnitude (10²⁷), both systems follow the same underlying physical principles.

Isn’t this the kind of connection we usually dismiss as late-night fantasy?

Why do migratory paths of animals mirror planetary orbits? Why do crystal formations and urban street grids both take on radial and lattice patterns? Why are both humans and plants structured through self-replicating fractals? Why does human heart rate variability (HRV) share the same 1/f noise spectrum as earthquakes and galactic oscillations?

(By the way, the ratio between an atomic nucleus and the human body also approximates 27 orders of magnitude. What do we do with that?)

Such observations are often dismissed as pseudoscientific metaphor—but they stem from a very real human instinct: our ability to map events across domains. This is how we create logical coherence between fields that do not share causality.

These parallels aren’t causal, but structurally proximate. You can’t prove they’re truly related. But you can’t prove they’re entirely unrelated either.

This suspended state—neither provable nor deniable—is precisely where category theory enters. The first structural language in the history of mathematics emerges from this gap.

By the mid-20th century, mathematics had entered its golden age of abstraction. Yet the field was fractured. Geometry, algebra, and topology each spoke their own internal logic. Mathematicians sensed that phenomena from one domain could be described in the language of another—but there was no shared syntax to bridge them. Mathematics had become trapped in its own linguistic logic, unable to fully describe the world it sought to understand.

It was in this context that category theory emerged. Causality cannot capture similarity, but structure can.

Category theory does not ask what a thing is made of, but whether there exists a relation between things. Once a relation is identified, it becomes possible to imagine how domains might interact, or be transposed.

Naturalistic science is built on the belief that “everything has a cause. But this is a faith born from the linearity of language, not the fullness of truth. Causal chains can explain how events unfold—but they struggle to reveal the conditions of emergence.

Where do new melodies come from?
How do we “think of solutions” in impossible moments?
Why does a human being suffer?

This book uses category theory to trace the topologies between phenomena. Its hope is modest but sincere: that this lens might reveal how our institutions have drifted from the logic of the universe—and why that drift continues to trouble us.