A state of combobulation

Subject: A state of combobulation

Are we all just figments of imagination. Do we know anything for a fact or is it all simply conjecture. If the mind plays tricks on us, when is it not playing tricks since the process of gathering information around us is so buried under with supposition, mental supposition based on templates that hardly fit the occasion but are used anyway to surmise our conceit.
If the world around us is a matter of conjecture and even ourselves, as we continually submit to some confection of ourselves to suite the occasion getting ourselves mixed up in something we conjure for others, is there any sense of true reality.
Many of  Shakespeare's characters are afflicted with this warp of human nature. Their lives play out to the deceit they play on themselves and to others, as is true of the mix of others to them. In this hall of distorted mirrors is their an object which is true or is all mankind simply a sham.
It's a question which is nearly unbearable to contemplate since we place so much store on the image we subconsciously project and would, like the Emperors new clothes, be naked if found out. In our battle to be what we perceive others to admire can we ever be happy.
So a blurring occurs from the start. We perceive what isn't there, or if it is there we perceive it inadequately and on such foundations we presume to understand others who are similarly disabled. What a mess.
I suppose in this fog of made up assumptions we can create our own truths, our own myths, a whole universe according to John or Sally, a combobulation of our own making which, if we are generous works toward the general good. If we are less than generous then we have conflict but you can be sure the conflict has no more a secure base than our own generous model for a Utopian state.
Mankind is cursed with inherent myopia, what it sees is a mental aberration a surrogate  for what it doesn't see, and what it doesn't see is by far the most of what is actually going on.