u/Odd_Working2188

I’ve been thinking about whether traditional patriotism still makes sense in a world where people can easily move, travel, learn languages, and immerse themselves in multiple cultures.

Historically, patriotism made sense because identity was geographically anchored. You were born in a place, raised within its language, shaped by its institutions, and naturally developed loyalty to that shared experience. It created cohesion, belonging, and a sense of collective responsibility.

But in a globalized world, identity is no longer singular. Many people now grow up influenced by multiple cultures at once — through travel, media, education, migration, and digital connection. It becomes increasingly possible to understand different histories, read the literature of multiple countries, learn their languages, and even feel emotionally connected to more than one cultural space.

So the question becomes: what does it actually mean to be “patriotic” today?

If patriotism means unconditional preference for one nation over others, it becomes harder to justify intellectually when we recognize that:

values like kindness, justice, creativity, and dignity are not exclusive to any country;

competence, empathy, and innovation exist everywhere;

and much of what we become is shaped by environment, opportunity, and chance rather than inherent national superiority.

At the same time, it is also true that people often feel genuine attachment to a place — not just the land itself, but the shared culture, humor, habits, struggles, and collective memory. There is something meaningful about communities that transmit values across generations and try to improve a shared space.

Maybe patriotism, in its strongest form, is not about superiority or exclusion, but about care: a commitment to improving the conditions of a place and its people, without denying the worth of others elsewhere.

Still, for some, identity no longer feels bound to one nation. It feels more fluid — almost cosmopolitan. A person may feel at home in multiple places, or feel that their strongest loyalty is not to a country, but to certain values:

freedom of thought,

respect for human dignity,

curiosity,

openness to experience,

and the desire for collective well-being.

From that perspective, belonging becomes less about geography and more about alignment with principles and ways of living.

So I find myself wondering: Is patriotism something we still choose in the traditional sense, or is it being replaced by a broader form of human identity that transcends borders altogether?

And if that is happening, what do we lose — and what do we gain — when identity is no longer tied to a single nation, but distributed across the world?

I’ve been thinking about whether traditional patriotism still makes sense in a world where people can easily move, travel, learn languages, and immerse themselves in multiple cultures.

Historically, patriotism made sense because identity was geographically anchored. You were born in a place, raised within its language, shaped by its institutions, and naturally developed loyalty to that shared experience. It created cohesion, belonging, and a sense of collective responsibility.

But in a globalized world, identity is no longer singular. Many people now grow up influenced by multiple cultures at once — through travel, media, education, migration, and digital connection.

It becomes increasingly possible to understand different histories, read the literature of multiple countries, learn their languages, and even feel emotionally connected to more than one cultural space.

So the question becomes: what does it actually mean to be “patriotic” today?

If patriotism means unconditional preference for one nation over others, it becomes harder to justify intellectually when we recognize that:

\- values like kindness, justice, creativity, and dignity are not exclusive to any country;

\- competence, empathy, and innovation exist everywhere;

\- and much of what we become is shaped by environment, opportunity, and chance rather than inherent national superiority.

At the same time, it is also true that people often feel genuine attachment to a place — not just the land itself, but the shared culture, humor, habits, struggles, and collective memory. There is something meaningful about communities that transmit values across generations and try to improve a shared space.

Maybe patriotism, in its strongest form, is not about superiority or exclusion, but about care: a commitment to improving the conditions of a place and its people, without denying the worth of others elsewhere.

Still, for some, identity no longer feels bound to one nation. It feels more fluid — almost cosmopolitan. A person may feel at home in multiple places, or feel that their strongest loyalty is not to a country, but to certain values:

\- freedom of thought,

\- respect for human dignity,

\- curiosity,

\- openness to experience,

\- and the desire for collective well-being.

From that perspective, belonging becomes less about geography and more about alignment with principles and ways of living.

So I find myself wondering:

Is patriotism something we still choose in the traditional sense, or is it being replaced by a broader form of human identity that transcends borders altogether?

And if that is happening, what do we lose — and what do we gain — when identity is no longer tied to a single nation, but distributed across the world?

I’ve been thinking about whether traditional patriotism still makes sense in a world where people can easily move, travel, learn languages, and immerse themselves in multiple cultures.

Historically, patriotism made sense because identity was geographically anchored. You were born in a place, raised within its language, shaped by its institutions, and naturally developed loyalty to that shared experience. It created cohesion, belonging, and a sense of collective responsibility.

But in a globalized world, identity is no longer singular. Many people now grow up influenced by multiple cultures at once — through travel, media, education, migration, and digital connection. It becomes increasingly possible to understand different histories, read the literature of multiple countries, learn their languages, and even feel emotionally connected to more than one cultural space.

So the question becomes: what does it actually mean to be “patriotic” today?

If patriotism means unconditional preference for one nation over others, it becomes harder to justify intellectually when we recognize that:

- values like kindness, justice, creativity, and dignity are not exclusive to any country;

- competence, empathy, and innovation exist everywhere;

- and much of what we become is shaped by environment, opportunity, and chance rather than inherent national superiority.

At the same time, it is also true that people often feel genuine attachment to a place — not just the land itself, but the shared culture, humor, habits, struggles, and collective memory. There is something meaningful about communities that transmit values across generations and try to improve a shared space.

Maybe patriotism, in its strongest form, is not about superiority or exclusion, but about care: a commitment to improving the conditions of a place and its people, without denying the worth of others elsewhere.

Still, for some, identity no longer feels bound to one nation. It feels more fluid — almost cosmopolitan. A person may feel at home in multiple places, or feel that their strongest loyalty is not to a country, but to certain values:

- freedom of thought,

- respect for human dignity,

- curiosity,

- openness to experience,

- and the desire for collective well-being.

From that perspective, belonging becomes less about geography and more about alignment with principles and ways of living.

So I find myself wondering:

Is patriotism something we still choose in the traditional sense, or is it being replaced by a broader form of human identity that transcends borders altogether?

And if that is happening, what do we lose — and what do we gain — when identity is no longer tied to a single nation, but distributed across the world?

​

There’s a perspective about God and human existence that has been fascinating me more and more lately: what if “divinity” is less an external omnipotent being and more a symbol of what human beings can reach internally?

When someone truly recognizes their strengths, flaws, virtues, contradictions, fears, and potential, they almost enter a transcendental state. Not in the literal sense of “becoming a god,” but in the sense of moving beyond automatic existence and unconscious living. Maybe that’s what brings us closer to what we call “the divine.”

I increasingly see Jesus Christ more as a powerful symbol of the relationship between humanity and the absolute than necessarily as literal proof of an omniscient and omnipotent God. The death and resurrection can represent something deeply human: the ability to psychologically die and be reborn through suffering, to transform pain into meaning, and to find purpose even within chaos.

In that sense, the Bible can be viewed as a collection of existential symbols. Many of its stories seem to address questions that humanity still struggles with today:

Why is life unfair?

Why do we suffer?

Why do we seek validation?

Why do we judge others?

Why are we afraid of loneliness and death?

Maybe the human mistake is comparing ourselves vertically: either wanting to feel superior to others, or feeling inferior to them.

But rarely do we see ourselves inwardly — as fundamentally comparable in the shared human condition.

Every person sees us through a partial perspective. Our actions will always be interpreted differently depending on the experiences, values, emotions, and beliefs of the observer. Perspective is relative. We will never please everyone. So we often try to please the majority because it gives us a sense of moral security — as if consensus automatically defines what is “good.”

But what if goodness begins first with inner honesty? If we genuinely believe we are acting from the best part of ourselves, maybe that is the closest thing to authentic morality.

For example:

someone may leave a stable career to pursue art, and some will call them irresponsible while others will call them courageous;

someone may distance themselves from family to protect their mental health and be seen simultaneously as selfish and mature;

a highly rational person may appear cold to some and wise to others.

Everything depends on the lens through which we are perceived.

And maybe that’s why I struggle to fully believe in the literal idea of an omniscient and omnipotent God who directly inspired every word of scripture through the Holy Spirit. When we study religions historically, we can see how they were shaped by cultures, fears, hopes, symbolism, politics, and deeply human needs.

That does not necessarily mean God “doesn’t exist.” Maybe it simply means that God is symbolic language for something greater:

consciousness,

transcendence,

truth,

unity,

meaning,

or humanity’s attempt to make sense of suffering and existence itself.

So perhaps the question stops being: “Does God exist?” and becomes: “What does it actually mean to move closer to God?”

Could it mean:

deeper self-awareness?

empathy?

humility?

inner transformation?

integration of suffering?

the ability to face reality without needing absolute certainty?

Maybe “God” is not something entirely outside us, but the highest form of consciousness, truth, and being that humans are capable of conceiving.

I’d genuinely love to hear different perspectives on this.

There’s a perspective about God and human existence that has been fascinating me more and more lately: what if “divinity” is less an external omnipotent being and more a symbol of what human beings can reach internally?

When someone truly recognizes their strengths, flaws, virtues, contradictions, fears, and potential, they almost enter a transcendental state. Not in the literal sense of “becoming a god,” but in the sense of moving beyond automatic existence and unconscious living. Maybe that’s what brings us closer to what we call “the divine.”

I increasingly see Jesus Christ more as a powerful symbol of the relationship between humanity and the absolute than necessarily as literal proof of an omniscient and omnipotent God. The death and resurrection can represent something deeply human: the ability to psychologically die and be reborn through suffering, to transform pain into meaning, and to find purpose even within chaos.

In that sense, the Bible can be viewed as a collection of existential symbols. Many of its stories seem to address questions that humanity still struggles with today:

- Why is life unfair?

- Why do we suffer?

- Why do we seek validation?

- Why do we judge others?

- Why are we afraid of loneliness and death?

Maybe the human mistake is comparing ourselves vertically:

either wanting to feel superior to others,

or feeling inferior to them.

But rarely do we see ourselves inwardly — as fundamentally comparable in the shared human condition.

Every person sees us through a partial perspective. Our actions will always be interpreted differently depending on the experiences, values, emotions, and beliefs of the observer. Perspective is relative. We will never please everyone. So we often try to please the majority because it gives us a sense of moral security — as if consensus automatically defines what is “good.”

But what if goodness begins first with inner honesty?

If we genuinely believe we are acting from the best part of ourselves, maybe that is the closest thing to authentic morality.

For example:

- someone may leave a stable career to pursue art, and some will call them irresponsible while others will call them courageous;

- someone may distance themselves from family to protect their mental health and be seen simultaneously as selfish and mature;

- a highly rational person may appear cold to some and wise to others.

Everything depends on the lens through which we are perceived.

And maybe that’s why I struggle to fully believe in the literal idea of an omniscient and omnipotent God who directly inspired every word of scripture through the Holy Spirit. When we study religions historically, we can see how they were shaped by cultures, fears, hopes, symbolism, politics, and deeply human needs.

That does not necessarily mean God “doesn’t exist.”

Maybe it simply means that God is symbolic language for something greater:

- consciousness,

- transcendence,

- truth,

- unity,

- meaning,

- or humanity’s attempt to make sense of suffering and existence itself.

So perhaps the question stops being:

“Does God exist?”

and becomes:

“What does it actually mean to move closer to God?”

Could it mean:

- deeper self-awareness?

- empathy?

- humility?

- inner transformation?

- integration of suffering?

- the ability to face reality without needing absolute certainty?

Maybe “God” is not something entirely outside us, but the highest form of consciousness, truth, and being that humans are capable of conceiving.

I’d genuinely love to hear different perspectives on this.

There’s a perspective about God and human existence that has been fascinating me more and more lately: what if “divinity” is less an external omnipotent being and more a symbol of what human beings can reach internally?

When someone truly recognizes their strengths, flaws, virtues, contradictions, fears, and potential, they almost enter a transcendental state. Not in the literal sense of “becoming a god,” but in the sense of moving beyond automatic existence and unconscious living. Maybe that’s what brings us closer to what we call “the divine.”

I increasingly see Jesus Christ more as a powerful symbol of the relationship between humanity and the absolute than necessarily as literal proof of an omniscient and omnipotent God. The death and resurrection can represent something deeply human: the ability to psychologically die and be reborn through suffering, to transform pain into meaning, and to find purpose even within chaos.

In that sense, the Bible can be viewed as a collection of existential symbols. Many of its stories seem to address questions that humanity still struggles with today:

Why is life unfair?

Why do we suffer?

Why do we seek validation?

Why do we judge others?

Why are we afraid of loneliness and death?

Maybe the human mistake is comparing ourselves vertically: either wanting to feel superior to others, or feeling inferior to them.

But rarely do we see ourselves inwardly — as fundamentally comparable in the shared human condition.

Every person sees us through a partial perspective. Our actions will always be interpreted differently depending on the experiences, values, emotions, and beliefs of the observer. Perspective is relative. We will never please everyone. So we often try to please the majority because it gives us a sense of moral security — as if consensus automatically defines what is “good.”

But what if goodness begins first with inner honesty? If we genuinely believe we are acting from the best part of ourselves, maybe that is the closest thing to authentic morality.

For example:

someone may leave a stable career to pursue art, and some will call them irresponsible while others will call them courageous;

someone may distance themselves from family to protect their mental health and be seen simultaneously as selfish and mature;

a highly rational person may appear cold to some and wise to others.

Everything depends on the lens through which we are perceived.

And maybe that’s why I struggle to fully believe in the literal idea of an omniscient and omnipotent God who directly inspired every word of scripture through the Holy Spirit. When we study religions historically, we can see how they were shaped by cultures, fears, hopes, symbolism, politics, and deeply human needs.

That does not necessarily mean God “doesn’t exist.” Maybe it simply means that God is symbolic language for something greater:

consciousness,

transcendence,

truth,

unity,

meaning,

or humanity’s attempt to make sense of suffering and existence itself.

So perhaps the question stops being: “Does God exist?” and becomes: “What does it actually mean to move closer to God?”

Could it mean:

deeper self-awareness?

empathy?

humility?

inner transformation?

integration of suffering?

the ability to face reality without needing absolute certainty?

Maybe “God” is not something entirely outside us, but the highest form of consciousness, truth, and being that humans are capable of conceiving.

I’d genuinely love to hear different perspectives on this.

Lately I’ve been thinking that in older societies people had a clearer “hero’s journey”: war, exploration, survival, building nations, overcoming external struggles. The challenge was visible, collective, and urgent.

But in modern society (especially in stable countries), many of those external battles are gone or less intense. Instead, the main struggle feels internal: identity, meaning, self-discipline, creativity, resisting comfort, overcoming laziness and boredom.

It feels like our generation’s journey is closer to what Steven Pressfield calls “the artist’s journey”: showing up every day, fighting resistance, building something meaningful, even if no one sees it and there’s no guarantee of impact on others, community, as you value communityy and youre eager to build a better future, and have your values so aligned with your precious identiy that i think its matter for everyone in this artistic journey after the hero journey.

Do you think this is true?
And if so, how do you stay consistent long-term without turning it into burnout or self-destruction
How do you “relax” in a healthy way while still moving forward?

And then how you think about loss of identity when everyone can be everyone, when AI can give some ideas, improve thoughts, speeches, creativity, helping building a better self, i think would be some struggles with identity, and lose of meaning, because AI covers knowledge, but there's a lot to do and everyone can have impact, but when everything is allright, no problems, suffering is reshaped, everyone is allright, good sense of community, everyone mastering some empathy skills,i think would be a problem.

I’d love to hear perspectives from philosophy, psychology, personal experience, or history.

Lately I’ve been thinking that in older societies people had a clearer “hero’s journey”: war, exploration, survival, building nations, overcoming external struggles. The challenge was visible, collective, and urgent.

But in modern society (especially in stable countries), many of those external battles are gone or less intense. Instead, the main struggle feels internal: identity, meaning, self-discipline, creativity, resisting comfort, overcoming laziness and boredom.

It feels like our generation’s journey is closer to what Steven Pressfield calls “the artist’s journey”: showing up every day, fighting resistance, building something meaningful, even if no one sees it and there’s no guarantee of impact on others, community, as you value communityy and youre eager to build a better future, and have your values so aligned with your precious identiy that i think its matter for everyone in this artistic journey after the hero journey.

Do you think this is true?
And if so, how do you stay consistent long-term without turning it into burnout or self-destruction
How do you “relax” in a healthy way while still moving forward?

And then how you think about loss of identity when everyone can be everyone, when AI can give some ideas, improve thoughts, speeches, creativity, helping building a better self, i think would be some struggles with identity, and lose of meaning, because AI covers knowledge, but there's a lot to do and everyone can have impact, but when everything is allright, no problems, suffering is reshaped, everyone is allright, good sense of community, everyone mastering some empathy skills,i think would be a problem.

I’d love to hear perspectives from philosophy, psychology, personal experience, or history.

If society ever reached an almost “ideal” state, what would humanity’s purpose become?

Imagine a world where:

• crime is almost nonexistent,
• people feel safe and relaxed,
• there’s strong community and trust,
• people help each other naturally,
• everyone has the freedom to become who they want,
• society is stable, peaceful and emotionally healthy.

Something close to the social feeling people associate with countries like Australia but even more developed.

What happens after that?

It feels easy to fight when there are still obvious problems to solve, suffering to reduce, injustice to overcome, etc. But if humanity actually reached a genuinely “good” society, what would keep giving people purpose?

Would our role become:

• preserving what previous generations built?
• protecting peace and social trust?
• continuing human creativity and self-development?
• inspiring future generations?
• improving life in smaller and deeper ways instead of surviving?

Do humans always need struggle to feel meaning, or can purpose evolve into maintaining and passing forward something beautiful and stable, good way of human beings interacting to each other, supporting each other, to flourish the best they could, supporting life problems like time flying, ageing, shattered dreams or failure?