The Architects of Meaning: GLPs, Retrocausality, and the Cognitive Work of Decolonisation
How Gestalt Language Processors Restructure Thought, Challenge Empire’s Narratives, and Model a New Way of Knowing
Decolonisation begins in the mind. This piece explores how curating inputs, retrocausality, and gestalt processing dismantle empire’s narratives and reshape the cognitive frameworks that define reality.
Introduction
Some of my earliest memories of joy in storytelling come from the sci-fi comics of the 1950s and ’60s, with their bold colours, streamlined rocket ships, and the promise of adventure among the stars. Before I gained literacy, these images were my entry point into imagined worlds, shaping the way I saw space, technology, and the future. When I did learn to read, one of my first deep dives into books was the John Carter of Mars series by Edgar Rice Burroughs. These stories expanded my vocabulary and comprehension skills, offering sweeping narratives of discovery and transformation on alien worlds. They felt limitless—exciting, intoxicating, and grand.
But literacy does more than allow for the decoding of words; it also sharpens awareness. As my understanding deepened, so too did my ability to recognise the underlying structures / patterns of these stories. I began to see what had previously been invisible to me—the way these narratives were built on colonial fantasies, their central characters always human (often white, often male) imposing themselves upon new worlds, bending alien societies to their will, remaking entire planets in their own image. The rocket ships of my childhood were not merely vehicles of discovery; they were instruments of conquest. The limitless possibilities I once saw were, in fact, deeply constrained by the cultural and ideological assumptions embedded in the genre itself.
This shift in perception wasn’t just a matter of critique—it was a fundamental reframing of how I processed stories themselves. As an autistic gestalt processor, I don’t absorb information in discrete parts, assembling meaning in a step-by-step fashion. Instead, I take in vast amounts of information, recognising patterns holistically, making connections across time, experience, and context. The materials I engage with are never just passive entertainment; they shape the very architecture of my thought. Every story, every piece of media, is an input that influences the larger framework through which I interpret the world. When I realised the colonial underpinnings of the stories I had once loved, it wasn’t simply a matter of rejecting them—it was a recognition that they had already played a role in constructing my cognitive landscape.
To change how I thought, I needed to change my inputs. The shift away from early sci-fi colonial narratives was not just a change in taste—it was an act of rewiring my mind, seeking out stories that honoured complexity rather than conquest, interconnectedness rather than extraction. What I consumed mattered, not just for what it contained, but for how it shaped the patterns of meaning I carried forward.
Gestalt Processing and the Deep Structuring of Thought
I do not process the world in a straight line. Where others may absorb knowledge in a step-by-step manner, accumulating facts like building blocks, my understanding forms through patterns, connections, and interwoven meaning. My cognition is not linear but relational, constructing meaning as an emergent property of the whole, rather than a sum of its individual parts. When I encounter new knowledge, my mind does not simply absorb it—I triage it first. Is this valuable? Is it garbage? Does it expand my understanding, or is it just noise? If it proves useful, it does not sit alongside what I already know like a new book on a shelf. Instead, it assimilates, forcing a restructuring of meaning, a recalibration of past knowledge in light of this new insight. Each addition is not just a piece of information but a rewiring of my cognitive architecture, reshaping patterns and refining connections. This is why curating inputs is an act of self-determination—it is not about passive learning, but about actively constructing the framework of thought itself.
This means that my early exposure to colonialist narratives in sci-fi did not just introduce me to a set of stories—it shaped the way I processed concepts of power, technology, and space itself. It embedded certain assumptions into my mental framework: that progress meant expansion, that technological advancement was inherently tied to dominance, that exploration was a justification for ownership, that uncharted frontiers were waiting to be claimed rather than understood. These ideas were not presented as opinions but as structural truths, as the very logic of how the world—and the universe—functioned. Because I process knowledge gestaltically, these ideas did not remain confined to the genre of fiction. They bled into my broader understanding of history, politics, and even my own sense of place in the world.
But awareness creates the possibility of revision. Just as new knowledge allows me to reinterpret past experiences within my memory sphere, the realisation of these colonial structures within my thinking gave me the power to actively reconstruct my cognitive landscape. Decolonisation, for me, has not been about simply rejecting problematic narratives or learning new facts. It has been about restructuring the deep mental frameworks that shape meaning itself. It is about recognising how colonial ideology is embedded not only in institutions, policies, and economies, but also in thought processes, in the very structure of knowledge acquisition, in the frameworks that dictate what is considered “natural” or “inevitable.”
This is why input must be carefully guarded. What I engage with—the books I read, the stories I consume, the media I allow into my cognitive space—does not simply influence me in the moment. It is an architect of thought, shaping the very patterns by which I make sense of the world. But this process is not neutral. I must remain constantly vigilant, not only for falsehoods or inaccuracies but for Neurolinguistic Programming (NLP), gaslighting, and native advertising—subtle yet insidious attempts to manipulate perception, redirect meaning, or implant ideas without direct interrogation. These tactics are often designed to bypass critical thought, embedding themselves as self-evident truths before they can even be consciously examined. For those unaware or unsophisticated in their detection, these influences become invisible shackles, shaping thought without ever revealing their presence.
The energy cost of this vigilance is significant. I cannot simply consume information; I must filter, interrogate, and deconstruct it before allowing it into my cognitive framework. Every new insight carries the potential to reconfigure past understandings, forcing me to revisit and realign knowledge that once felt solid. Where others may rest in the comfort of fixed narratives, I must remain in a state of constant re-evaluation, always aware that meaning itself is shaped by power—by whose voice is heard, by what is omitted, by how language is wielded to guide thought in one direction rather than another.
This is something analytic language processors (ALPs) rarely comprehend. For them, knowledge is a linear accumulation, a static structure where contradictions are inconveniences rather than urgent invitations to reprocess meaning. When I challenge fixed narratives, when I re-evaluate past frameworks in light of new information, they see it as “revisionism,” a disruption rather than an evolution. They do not perceive how language is weaponised, how the narratives they take for granted have been meticulously engineered to manufacture consent, to protect power, to ensure that certain conclusions seem inevitable while others remain unthinkable. Their resistance is not just a failure to engage—it is a defense mechanism, a refusal to acknowledge that the reality they have been conditioned to accept was never neutral to begin with.
Decolonisation, then, is not just an intellectual pursuit—it is an unrelenting process of reconfiguration, one that demands both constant scrutiny and the energy to resist manipulation at every turn. It is not enough to reject propaganda; one must be able to recognise the mechanisms by which it infiltrates perception, to dismantle the cognitive scaffolding of empire before it embeds itself too deeply. This is a demanding way to exist, but it is also the only way I know to be fully present in the truth of things.
Retrocausality – Rewriting Meaning in the Present
The past is not fixed. Meaning is not static. Retrocausality is the process by which new understanding does not just build upon what came before, but actively reshapes it. My memories, my interpretations, my understanding of past influences are all subject to revision—not in the sense of erasure, but in the sense that their meaning is continuously redefined by what I know now. What once seemed clear, foundational, even self-evident, can be reprocessed in light of new knowledge, revealing depths, distortions, or entirely new frameworks that were previously inaccessible to me.
This is not simply a matter of rejecting the past, nor is it an exercise in intellectual detachment. It is a necessary process of decolonisation, one that recognises that my earliest influences were not neutral, nor was my initial interpretation of them. The sci-fi I once adored—the spacefaring adventures, the intergalactic conquests, the heroic colonisation of new worlds—was never just an aesthetic or narrative preference. It was a projection of imperial mythology onto the stars, an extension of Earth-bound colonial logics repackaged as the inevitable future of humanity. Knowing what I know now, I do not merely look back on these stories and acknowledge their flaws. I see them differently—as artifacts of empire, as narratives designed to reinforce a particular worldview in which expansion is progress, conquest is destiny, and technological supremacy justifies domination.
But this is not simply about critique. The power of retrocausality in gestalt processing means that my present reality reshapes the past, not just intellectually, but within the structure of my cognition itself. My selection of inputs today—stories that honour complexity over control, narratives that prioritise coexistence over extraction—does not just inform my current thinking. It alters the way I remember, the way I contextualise, the way I understand everything that came before. The past is not erased, but it is reframed, no longer a fixed foundation but a constantly evolving network of meaning, shifting in response to the present.
This is why decolonisation is not simply a matter of learning new histories or adopting better frameworks. It is an ongoing act of reprocessing, of interrogating how past knowledge was structured, of untangling the ways empire has shaped perception itself. The question is not just what happened but how it was framed, how it was internalised, how it continues to function in the present. To leave that unexamined would be to accept the past as unchangeable, as if it were a static truth rather than an ever-unfolding narrative, one that I have the power to reshape, reinterpret, and reclaim.
The Role of the Pentagon, Hollywood, and Publishing in Manufacturing Consent
Stories do not emerge in a vacuum. The books that get published, the films that get funded, the narratives that are elevated as “important” are not merely reflections of artistic vision but products of a heavily controlled ideological apparatus. In the U.S., the Pentagon, Hollywood, and corporate publishing function as gatekeepers, ensuring that certain stories dominate while others are sidelined, suppressed, or never told at all. This is not accidental; it is manufactured consent, a system designed to make war, empire, and capitalist realism seem inevitable—so deeply embedded in cultural production that questioning them appears unnatural, even irrational.
Hollywood, for example, does not just depict war—it actively collaborates with the military to shape public perception of it. The Pentagon provides funding, equipment, and access to military resources for films that portray the U.S. as a righteous force, ensuring that war narratives remain palatable, heroic, and justifiable. Any story that might challenge this framing—one that depicts the brutality, futility, or imperialist nature of war—is met with institutional barriers, from lack of funding to industry blacklisting. Meanwhile, corporate publishing functions in much the same way. Books that reinforce capitalist realism—the belief that capitalism is the only viable system, that its failures are mere inconveniences rather than structural collapses—are given wide distribution and marketing, while texts that challenge this assumption are treated as niche, fringe, or outright dangerous. Social media, with its algorithmic curation of visibility, furthers this process, boosting nationalist, war-driven, extractive ideologies while suppressing radical thought.
It is for this reason that my current favourite authors exist outside of this system. Their work does not cater to U.S. propaganda mechanisms, nor does it fit neatly within the ideological limits imposed by Western corporate gatekeeping. They embrace complexity over conquest, interdependence over extraction, refusing the simplistic narratives that frame expansion as progress and domination as destiny. Their works resonate with me because they offer something different—alternative cognitive structures, ways of thinking that reject colonial framing and allow for an understanding of existence that is not dictated by war, empire, and capital.
To read them is not merely an act of literary preference—it is an act of resistance, a refusal to allow my cognitive space to be dictated by the same forces that manufacture consent for destruction, exploitation, and control. By choosing what I engage with, I am choosing which frameworks I allow to shape my thought. The world I construct in my mind is not bound by the limits of empire, and neither are the stories I allow to reside there.
Choosing Intentional Inputs as a Decolonial Practice
Curating inputs is not just a matter of preference—it is an act of resistance. Every book I read, every film I watch, every piece of media I engage with is not just content; it is a structural element of my cognitive architecture. Choosing to engage with narratives that challenge dominant ideologies is not passive consumption—it is an active reshaping of thought. The world does not simply exist as it is; it is interpreted, processed, and given meaning through the frameworks we carry. If those frameworks have been shaped by empire, then decolonisation must begin within the mind itself.
This is why decolonisation cannot be limited to policy, activism, or institutional change alone—those are important, but they are external. The true battle happens internally, within the structures of thought that dictate how we perceive power, history, and possibility. Before any systemic change can take hold, it must be accompanied by a shift in cognition, a process of rewiring perception away from the narratives of empire. Empire’s greatest success is not just in conquest or material domination—it is in controlling the stories that shape reality itself. By choosing to engage with media that honours complexity over control, that centres interdependence rather than extraction, I am actively undoing the cognitive conditioning of empire.
But this is not a process I undertake alone—nor should it be. GLPs must lead the way. For too long, the understanding of GLPs has been siloed within fields like speech and language pathology, treated as a niche variation rather than a fundamental difference in cognition—one that has profound implications for how knowledge, meaning, and systems are constructed. Society at large does not yet understand how we process the world, and because of this, it fails to see what we have to offer. Our ability to integrate vast amounts of information, to reconfigure knowledge retrocausally, to question the foundations of thought itself, makes us uniquely positioned to model what decolonisation looks like at a cognitive level.
Decolonisation is not a single act—it is a continuous process of interrogation and reconstruction. And for that process to be visible, we must be visible. GLPs cannot remain isolated, struggling to restructure perception in solitude while society continues to reinforce colonial modes of thinking. We must make this process explicit—a kind of decolonial SRSD (Self-Regulated Strategy Development) “think aloud”—not just demonstrating new ways of understanding, but showing the internal mechanisms of how knowledge is reprocessed, rewritten, and reclaimed. That is why I write.
My writing is not just reflection—it is a form of intellectual wayfinding, an invitation for others to witness what decolonisation looks like when undertaken at the level of cognition itself. If the world does not yet know what GLPs can do, then we must show them. We must not only exist but be visible, making the internal processes of rethinking, restructuring, and rejecting empire’s narratives legible to those who do not yet understand how deep this work must go. We are not merely receivers of information—we are architects of meaning. And if society is to move beyond its entrenched narratives, then it is time for the architects to lead.
Final thoughts …
Decolonisation is not a single act, nor is it a finished state one arrives at. It is an ongoing, recursive process—a continuous interrogation of how meaning has been shaped, an unmaking of the cognitive structures built by empire, and a reconstruction of something else in their place. Every new piece of knowledge, every intentional engagement with radical literature, every challenge to inherited narratives does not simply add to my understanding—it reshapes it, retroactively altering my perception of the past while simultaneously constructing new possibilities for the future.
The power of gestalt processing and retrocausality is that I am not locked into the patterns I absorbed as a child. The narratives that once structured my understanding of the world—space as conquest, expansion as progress, extraction as inevitable—do not have to remain immutable. I can revise them. I can overwrite them. I can refuse them. I can take apart the scaffolding of thought imposed upon me and rebuild it in alignment with what I now understand to be true.
What we take in matters—not just in the moment, but in how it weaves itself into the very fabric of our perception. Input is not passive; it is structural. The books we read, the media we consume, the stories we allow to shape our cognition all dictate how we see ourselves, history, power, and possibility. Choosing radical, complex, matristic inputs isn’t just a matter of taste—it is a necessary act of decolonial resistance. It is a refusal to accept the world as empire has constructed it, a rejection of the inevitability of extraction and conquest, and a commitment to rethinking not just the world outside, but the internal landscapes through which we understand it.