This past week, I noticed something strange in my left eye—a faint, dark spot hovering just off-center whenever I focused. It was especially distracting while reading; the spot would follow each eye movement with a short lag, almost like a fly, demanding my attention. Yet when I tried to look directly at it, it would disappear.

After researching the symptoms, I concluded it was a floater—a tiny clump of collagen within the vitreous humor, the gel-like substance that fills the eye. These floaters cast shadows on the retina, which our brain interprets as floating specks or shadows. What puzzled me was that it remained fixed in the same area of my visual field for weeks, unlike the usual fleeting ones I’d occasionally noticed before.

Eventually, I visited an ophthalmologist, who confirmed my suspicions. After retinal imaging and several tests, he explained that while the floater might never fully go away, over time my brain would likely begin to ignore it. He described a kind of perceptual adaptation, where the brain—specifically the visual cortex—learns to filter out persistent, unchanging stimuli.

This explanation struck me as deeply fascinating. How could the brain decide to suppress information that is technically still there? The floater itself doesn’t dissolve. Instead, the brain deems it unimportant and simply stops prioritizing it for conscious perception. And indeed, after a few more weeks, I began to notice it less and less. It was still there in my eye’s vitreous gel, but my brain had begun to tune it out.

This process points to the quiet intelligence embedded in our biology—an intelligence that operates without our awareness. It’s easy to associate intelligence only with our thinking mind, but our bodies are constantly making decisions behind the scenes.

This same intelligence often reveals itself in how our bodies handle emotional stress. I’ve trained myself to manage difficult thoughts—to mentally set aside distressing emotions when necessary. But the body has its own way of responding. Even when the mind seems unaffected, the body can express what we’ve suppressed: a racing heart, a stomach ache, skin reactions, or fatigue. These are not random—they’re signals that something is being processed at a deeper level.

Both experiences—the disappearing floater and the physical signs of emotional distress—showcase the body’s integrated intelligence. We are not simply minds that command passive bodies. Rather, our physiology engages in ongoing, active dialogue with our experiences, both sensory and emotional. Sometimes, it decides what we no longer need to see. Other times, it insists we pay attention to something we’ve tried to ignore.

What we call “body” and what we call “mind” are part of a seamless system—working together, adapting, and protecting us in ways we rarely appreciate. This quiet, subconscious intelligence may not speak in words, but it’s always listening. And sometimes (actually, most of the time, but definitely not always), it knows what’s best for us.

Diego Velázquez’s renditions of various figures in the Spanish court of Philip IV capture moments of melancholic wisdom,—an awareness of the inner working of the Spanish court at the time, due to their unrestricted access to all parts of it—yet these people were never taken seriously, perhaps due to their diminutive physical appearances. However, Velazques has painted them under a deeper light. Unfortunately, artists are often succumbed to tailoring their works to the preferences of their patrons, who are typically more interested in paintings that align with the prevailing trends of the time, leaving no chance to the artist for exploring his intellectual subconsciousness through paid commissions. As a result, thinkers—who often possess a profound intellectual and creative sensibility—can find themselves constrained by such demands, deeply yearning to break free and create something more authentic, something that truly reflects the deeper essence of their time and place, worthy of being eternalized. This is precisely what Velázquez achieved in his depictions of dwarves and buffoons in the Spanish court. He moved beyond mere representation, capturing the essence of these individuals and revealing the authentic depth of their beings.

In The Portrait of Francisco Lezcano (above), Velázquez captures a moment, depicting the dwarf in a state of anticipation and restlessness. He holds his cards tightly, his grip fervent yet uncertain, as he glances toward the court_*, awaiting confirmation to begin his performance. His posture is particularly carefully crafted by the painter—one foot positioned upright—emphasizing his small stature while also conveying a sense of readiness with one foot on the ground. Velázquez masterfully highlights Lezcano’s distinctive form, rendering it with his almost childlike, innocent expression. There is a psychological depth to the portrayal—Lezcano seems not to be quite happy, yet there is a sense of resigned dedication to his role. His demeanor suggests the emotional weight of his position in court life, caught between his duty and personal sentiment, which most likely is a complex mix of disdain and enthusiasm. Additionally, the background deserves attention. The wintry mountains and serene landscape behind him form its own distinct world, while not distracting from the subject to its carefully devised color palate and pictorial composition.¹