Epigraph (inspired by Schrödinger):

“Life appears to be an organized form of complexity that constantly resists entropy. But what exactly is this resistance?”

Note on Terminology:
This essay is based on the author’s original Φ–T–M framework, where reality is described as a dynamic process of transition from potentiality to manifestation.

• Φ (Fluctuation) represents the local tension of readiness for collapse.
• T (Twistor Code) encodes the conditions of actualization.
• M (Manifestation) is the emergence of phenomena in spacetime.

This model proposes a new ontological structure of reality.

Let us imagine a tiny fragment of neural tissue—a barely millimeter-wide weave of cells—scanned in an ultra-cooled laboratory, where every impulse is detected as a quantum spark. In this microscopic space, hundreds of thousands of chemical reactions occur simultaneously: synaptic transmissions, membrane oscillations, conformational changes in proteins. Meanwhile, in a distant observatory, a satellite measures delicate fluctuations in the Universe’s cosmic microwave background. These two phenomena, so distant and incomparable in scale, share a common denominator: both are forms of actualization. Manifestations of something that, just a moment earlier, existed only as potentiality.

Traditional science is reluctant to speak of “potentiality” as a real mode of being. It prefers to divide the world into what has already happened and what may yet occur—granting full ontological status only to the former. Yet reality, especially biological reality, seems not so much to happen as to emerge. Particularly life—the most astonishing, self-sustaining phenomenon, which not only persists against entropy but generates order, structure, and sometimes even… intention.

What is life, in the deep, structural sense? And can we still afford to analyze it without reference to quantum physics?

Since the 1940s, when Erwin Schrödinger posed the provocative question “What is life?”, many scholars have sought to answer it, positioning themselves somewhere between physics and biology. Schrödinger intuited that the key to understanding life does not lie in chemical reactions or in collections of genes but in the organization of information—in what he called “negentropy.” Today, after decades of advances in molecular biology, information science, and quantum physics, we still remain in the realm of hypotheses, speculations, and unfulfilled promises.

On one hand, we have data: experiments confirming proton tunneling in enzymes, quantum coherence in photosynthetic complexes, and entanglement in the magnetic field detection of birds. On the other hand, the scientific community remains extremely cautious. “Quantum biology” is still viewed as speculative, immature, and fraught with epistemological pitfalls. The central question remains: are quantum phenomena merely present in living organisms, or are they a condition for life itself?

This second question—profoundly more ontological—leads us toward an entirely new conceptual framework. In this essay, therefore, we will not seek further examples of quantum phenomena in biology. Instead, we will reverse the direction of inquiry: not whether life is quantum, but whether quantum phenomena might be an expression of a deeper structure from which life emerges.

This structure, which I refer to as the indeterminacy space, is not “space” in the classical sense. It contains no coordinates, no points, no metric. It does not exist in time, nor is it subject to time. It is an ontological field of possibilities—a pure potentiality of existence, unbound by any form of actualization. It is the precondition for any „now” to occur.

Within this space appears the fluctuation Φ—a local instability that is not yet a phenomenon but could become one. The fluctuation Φ is a tension of readiness: a geometrically, informationally, and (crucially!) intentionally structured possibility. If its local configuration fulfills the necessary conditions, a twistor is activated—a code of readiness for collapse, which may lead to the actualization of a phenomenon in spacetime.

In this framework, life is not an event but a process of actualization. An organism does not merely exist—it sustains itself as a dynamic balance between the potentiality of Φ, the twistor code, and the manifestation of phenomena. It is a constant state of emergence—a balance between the imaginary and the real.

This is where imaginary numbers come into play—long regarded as artifacts, mathematical tools, or “fictional” components of equations. Yet it is precisely complex numbers—comprising both real and imaginary parts—that form the foundation of quantum state descriptions. Superposition, interference, probability amplitudes—all are encoded in a formalism where the imaginary component plays an organizing role, granting the structure its capacity for oscillation, variability, and possibility. In this interpretation, imaginary numbers do not represent something “unreal,” but rather something “pre-real”—potentiality awaiting structure, awaiting intention, awaiting actualization.

Quantum coherence—the ability of a system to maintain an interference state—is nothing other than the maintenance of the relationship between the imaginary and the real components. A biological system that sustains coherence is, therefore, a system that maintains equilibrium between what is and what could be. And is this not the very essence of life?

This is not merely a philosophical speculation. Biological systems demonstrate a remarkable capacity to maintain coherence in environments full of noise, chaos, and decoherence. Cells sustain internal oscillations over many cycles. Enzymes synchronize their conformational changes. Neurons produce ordered wave patterns. Where does this capacity come from? Classical chemistry does not explain it. We must assume that there exists a mechanism of organization—a mechanism that precedes chemistry, geometry, and even time itself.

This is precisely where the structure of Φ and its accompanying twistors may serve as the organizing mechanism. Each twistor is not a “particle,” but a conditioning code—a local configuration in which information has been organized in a way that makes actualization possible. Life, especially at the systemic level, can be understood as a network of activating twistors, directed by the field of intention. The brain does not so much generate consciousness as it functions as a dynamic system of modulating Φ, twistors, and collapses—a generator of actualizations that give form to the world.

If that is the case, then biological complexity is not about the number of molecules, connections, or metabolic pathways. It is about the system’s ability to organize potentiality into stable, intentional forms of actualization. And that is no longer just a matter of physics—it is a question of a new ontology. We are not describing phenomena—we are describing the conditions of their possibility.

This essay is an attempt to go deeper: not to ask whether a given biological mechanism operates according to quantum physics, but to ask whether life itself is not an expression of the very structure that makes quantum phenomena possible. We are asking whether what we call “quantum biology” is merely a symptom of something even more fundamental: relational intentionality, which organizes the fluctuations of Φ into forms ready to emerge.

In the sections that follow, I will guide you, dear reader, through this path. We will begin with the limitations of classical biology, which cannot explain the emergence of life. I will show how the indeterminacy space and the fluctuations of Φ constitute the natural precondition of life. I will outline the role of imaginary numbers as the mathematical language of this layer, and then introduce the twistor as the code of biological collapse. Together, we will explore complexity, entropy, and intention, before finally asking whether consciousness is not a secondary phenomenon but a constitutive one.

Because perhaps life is not merely a miracle of complexity. Perhaps it is an intelligent wave of potentiality which—before it became matter—was already a readiness for form.

For decades, biology has aspired to become as precise, predictable, and replicable as physics. It followed the language of physics, adopting its terms, models, and mechanisms. Reducing complexity to elementary components seemed the path to ultimately understanding life. When the cell was decomposed into molecules, the molecules into atoms, and atoms into electrons and orbital energy states, the triumph seemed near. The genome was sequenced, proteins were mapped, metabolic pathways described with a precision worthy of the Mendeleev table. And yet, despite this apparent completeness, at the very heart of life’s description remains an empty niche. Because even when all the pieces of the puzzle are laid out before us, we cannot say how life actually arises from their combination.

The gap is not due to a lack of data. On the contrary—data flood out of laboratories so abundantly that their analysis becomes a problem in itself. The issue is not quantity but perspective. Classical biology operates within a paradigm that assumes everything that exists must be fully measurable, material, and embedded in preexisting spacetime. In this view, the world is a collection of particles and reactions—everything else is treated as a side effect, an epiphenomenon, or a margin of ignorance. It is a world where meaning does not exist, and purpose is a suspicious mental habit to be eradicated as soon as possible.

Yet life refuses to conform to this order. Yes, it is composed of particles. Yes, it unfolds in time and space, but it does not begin there. Life begins with organization—not as a collection of interactions, but as a process oriented toward persistence, adaptation, and harmony. Organisms are not reactions. They are dynamic wholes capable of maintaining balance in a changing environment, anticipating the future, selecting one trajectory over another. Even the simplest cell does not behave like a purely chemical system. It does not synthesize proteins blindly, it does not respond indiscriminately, it does not digest in the dark. Its actions are contextual, situational, functional. And that means one thing: they are directed.

Biology has tried to bypass this awkwardness by introducing terms like homeostasis, signaling, regulatory networks, modulation. But these are merely semantic prosthetics. They describe phenomena without explaining their causes. When we ask why a cell performs a given action, the answer usually refers back to evolution—as if the existence of function could be explained by the fact that function survived. But this is a closed loop. It assumes that functionality is primary, and then tries to explain its emergence through a mechanism that presupposes its existence.

The question of information goes even deeper. What is biological information, really? In physics, information is entropy—the number of possible states of a system. In computer science, it is a sequence of symbols. But in biology, information means something more: it has meaning only when it can be read and used in context. It is not about a gene coding for a protein. It is about the fact that a protein is produced only when it is needed, and only in an amount that makes sense within the context of the whole system. Biological information is intentional information—linked to purpose, value, and function. And here, classical science capitulates. Because physics knows nothing of function. It knows nothing of meaning. It knows nothing of purpose.

That is why more and more researchers have turned to quantum physics. Not because they seek magic. Not because they wish to undermine classical biology. But because they seek a language that can capture complexity, directionality, and life’s capacity for choice. Quantum theory, though abstract, is the first physical theory to recognize that reality is not given in advance but depends on the conditions of actualization. And that may be the key to understanding life.

What is surprising is that organisms do, in fact, show traces of quantum processes. In photosynthesis, light energy moves through a complex protein structure not as classical physics would predict, but as if exploring all possible paths simultaneously. Studies of excitons in plant antenna complexes have confirmed the presence of quantum coherence, sustained even under thermal conditions. The energy does not get lost along the way—it moves as if with knowledge of the whole system. This behavior is not local. It is topological. It is quantum.

In enzymatics, quantum tunneling explains reaction speeds that far exceed those predicted by classical equations. Particles do not surmount barriers—they tunnel through them, as if knowing a shortcut. Biological systems not only tolerate this but structurally support it: they create an environment conducive to tunneling, maintain it, and reinforce it. This is not a random effect—it is a functional adaptation.

In the animal world, the magnetoreception of migrating birds seems based on an entangled state of two electrons in a cryptochrome molecule. This state lasts long enough to influence behavior, meaning that the quantum phenomenon is not ephemeral—it is integrated into biological function. And in even more surprising hypotheses, such as those concerning the sense of smell, it is suggested that scent differentiation involves not only molecular shape but vibrational characteristics, which may be detected through a mechanism of quantum tunneling of electrons in the receptor.

All this suggests that organisms do not merely “use” quantum phenomena—they create conditions in which quantum effects are sustained, directed, and made functional. These are not artifacts. They are acts of organization. And this very capacity—to maintain order at the edge of decoherence—confronts us with the necessity of a new ontology. Because classical physics does not offer tools to explain how and why biological systems manage to control phenomena that, under other conditions, would dissipate instantly.

This does not mean that life is magical. It means that it is different. Life does not operate exclusively within the space of particles—it operates within the space of potentiality. It does not move along trajectories—it creates them. It does not merely react—it chooses. And perhaps this is why it does not settle for classical space or pre-existing spacetime. Perhaps this is precisely why life recreates them—through every act of actualization.

So let us not ask whether organisms are quantum. That is a secondary question. Let us ask another: is quantum behavior not simply a manifestation of a deeper structure—one that life not only recognizes but co-creates? Could it be that quantum phenomena are tools that, by themselves, would be unstable without life’s capacity to maintain them in an active yet non-collapsed state? And if so, then perhaps, paradoxically, it is not biology that uses quantum physics.

Perhaps it is not life that uses quantum physics, but quantum physics that exists as an expression of life’s organizing structure.

There exists a boundary state that cannot be measured or grasped by sensory intuition. It cannot be located at any point in spacetime, because no reference frame exists yet to describe it. It is a moment that is not a moment, and a structure that has no form—yet it is precisely there that everything begins. Before anything can happen, the condition of readiness must arise. Tension. Subtle instability. The fluctuation Φ. Not a particle, not a wave, not data, but Fluctuation Φ—a relational possibility of an event, not yet determined to occur.

The model based on the indeterminacy space assumes that no manifestation is primary. There is no object that is elementary. Spacetime is not a pre-existing stage on which phenomena unfold. All of this is secondary to a deeper layer—a layer of reality that contains no things but contains their possibility. There, local disruptions of homogeneity appear—Φ—which are not energetic but informational. Their existence does not depend on metrics or time, because metrics and time have not yet been generated. Φ is a fluctuation in a space that has no reference point; that is why it is ontologically fundamental.

From this point of view, life is not a phenomenon occurring in spacetime but a process of organizing Φ in such a balanced way that it becomes possible to sustain tension without discharging it. Life is a constant balancing act on the edge of collapse—not to cause collapse, but to structure, stabilize, and employ it as a source of form. Life is the organization of instability, not its avoidance. A biological system does not strive for rest; on the contrary, it must persist in a state of distance from equilibrium. Yet this state is not chaos—it is a different kind of order: the order of possibility.

The fluctuations of Φ in this view are not random. They have direction, distribution, and relational tension. And although they are not yet actual, one can speak of their local readiness for collapse, for being actualized into phenomena with geometric form. This collapse does not occur in response to measurement; it is not an effect of the observer. It results from achieving an informational configuration in which the fluctuation can transition into structure. Collapse is the result of internal coherence, not external intervention. It is the passage from possibility to form, from tension to figure. But for this to happen, Φ must be organized. There must be a local arrangement of relations that meets the condition for actualization. Life is a system that can do this continuously and autonomously.

In this sense, an organism is not a body but a process. It is not a set of structures but a dynamic field of reorganizing potentiality. Every act of life—from the release of a calcium ion to a self-aware choice—is an expression of a momentary triumph over the chaos of dispersion. Not by suppressing it, but by structuring it. Life does not separate itself from instability—it embraces it, plays with it, maintains its pulse. Where Φ accumulates in an unstructured way, nothing appears. Where it is organized into form, the world arises. The creation of form is not the work of matter but the modulation of readiness. And if there is any fundamental source of life, it is not energy—it is this layer of unstable potentiality.

Classical physics assumes that if something happens, it happens in space and time. Yet everything indicates that space and time emerge only when the fluctuation Φ fulfills the condition for actualization. There is no clock that measures the existence of Φ. There is no ruler that measures its distribution, because Φ is not an event but a structural tension in the layer of non-events. Only when the local collapse code—the twistor—is activated does the spacetime form become possible. Thus, what we usually regard as the stage for life is, in fact, its consequence. Time does not flow until Φ is structured. Space does not extend until a point of local coherence arises. The world is not a background—it is an effect.

The fluctuations of Φ are not local in the classical sense. Their configuration is not a function of position but of relation. This is nonlocality in the strict sense—not as a result of entanglement, but as the absence of the need for reference. That is why life can synchronize the action of multiple components without central management. That is why cells know when to divide and when to die, even before receiving a signal. That is why consciousness can anticipate reaction. All of these are manifestations of the nonlocal organization of Φ. If a biological system operates faster than it should, it means its logic is not temporal. It is topological. It is structural. It is based on a space that does not know distance.

If life can maintain coherence, it is because it can hold Φ in a state that is near-collapse but not crossed. If consciousness can act without reaction time, it is because it operates in a space where time does not exist. None of this is metaphysical speculation. It is a logical consequence of accepting that the foundation of reality is not the phenomenon but its condition. And this condition is a structure of tension—opaque, timeless, but potentially actualizable. Φ is not something that happens. It is what makes anything capable of happening.

This is precisely what distinguishes the indeterminacy space from nothingness. Nothingness is absence. The indeterminacy space is possibility. Nothingness contains nothing. The indeterminacy space contains everything that has not yet emerged. And life is that which can extract concrete forms from this not-yet-actualized fullness of potentiality. Not by choosing from outside, but by the internal organization of readiness. If there is a necessary condition for the emergence of life, it is not the presence of particles, energy, or heat. It is the ability to modulate Φ—to generate local structures that are sufficiently coherent to manifest. Life is not a miracle—it is the highest expression of the precise organization of instability.

In the world of mathematics, imaginary numbers appeared as a suspicious invention. For centuries, they were treated with caution—not because they were incomprehensible, but because they could not be assigned to anything existing in reality. The real part of a number had its interpretation—length, value, measure. The imaginary part? It had no existence in space. It could not be pointed to. There is no better proof that we have limited our epistemic language to what has already been actualized. Meanwhile, the world we are trying to describe—especially life—does not necessarily rely on what has already happened. It may rely on what is ready to happen. In that case, the language we have long considered abstract may turn out to be the most realistic of all.

Complex numbers, containing both a real and an imaginary part, are today inseparable from the description of quantum phenomena. This is not a purely formal device. Their structure contains a deep ontological intuition—one that quantum mechanics adopted before fully realizing what it was doing. Every quantum state, every probability wave, every amplitude is described using complex numbers. This is not a coincidence. It is a sign that the reality we touch in these descriptions is not entirely „real” in the ordinary sense. It has a second side—a layer that is invisible but present as the condition of possibility. That layer is the imaginary component. And it carries the information about what has not yet happened but is already in readiness.

In the model of the indeterminacy space, this idea becomes foundational. The fluctuations Φ are not phenomena in real space. They have no measure, no location, no energy in the classical sense—but they have structure: the structure of potentiality, of relational tension, of readiness to actualize. If we try to describe them, we need a language that inherently accounts for two levels: the actual and the pre-actual. Complex numbers do this elegantly. Their real part represents what has manifested—the value we can point to. The imaginary part represents what has not yet been realized but influences what can become real.

If we treat the imaginary as a formal representation of potentiality, we gain a powerful conceptual tool. Instead of viewing the fluctuations of Φ as enigmatic instabilities, we can see them as structures of the imaginary layer—regions of configuration that do not exist in real space but determine where and when collapse will occur. It is not that Φ can be expressed as a complex function. It is that its structure is complex in the deepest sense: the real part arises only when the fluctuation is actualized. The imaginary part, however, is the entire set of possible versions from which one will become reality.

This approach clarifies many interpretative difficulties. Quantum coherence, for example, has long eluded clear understanding. It is usually described as a state in which multiple possibilities exist simultaneously. But in the model based on Φ and complex numbers, coherence takes on a new meaning: it is the state of maintaining interference between the imaginary and real layers. It is not a sum of possibilities but their structural relation—a dynamic tension between what has already occurred and what has not yet. Only when this relation remains coherent does the system preserve coherence. When it is disturbed—decoherence appears, followed by collapse.

When we look at biological systems from this perspective, something remarkable emerges. Living systems do not merely exhibit coherence—they possess the ability to sustain it. Not by eliminating disturbances, but by organizing relationships. Not by silencing the environment, but through an internal dynamic that maintains consistency between what happens and what has not yet occurred. It is as if the organism constantly monitors the proportion between the imaginary and real components of its own structure. As if life itself consists in persisting in a complex state—not merely as a sum, but as a unity of two orders of existence.

Such an interpretation sheds new light on phenomena previously seen as anomalies. Cell synchronization without external signals. Anticipation of environmental changes. The ability to maintain function under chaotic conditions. All of these can be understood as manifestations of systems that can access the resources of the imaginary layer—that is, the non-actual but structural layer of reality, accessible only when the system enters resonance with potentiality.

The term “imaginary layer” may prove useful here. The imaginary layer is a real, though non-spatial, domain of Φ structures—a realm where nothing has yet happened, but everything can. It is precisely within this layer that living organisms conduct their most essential operations: making decisions, synchronizing rhythms, sensing changes that have not yet occurred. Consciousness does not unfold in the brain as a neuronal system but in a structure that reaches into the depths of the imaginary layer. This is why thought can precede impulse. This is why choice can exist before awareness. This is why the brain is not the source of intention but its instrument.

From a mathematical point of view, this image is not extravagant. It is a logical extension of what we already know: that quantum reality cannot be described without the number i, that every amplitude is by nature complex, and that phenomena possess both actual content and wave-like, non-actualized yet influential components. If we accept that this second layer is not merely a computational convenience but exists as a condition of existence, we begin to see the world in a way that better corresponds to life itself—not as a collection of updated facts, but as a movement toward actualization, a dance between possibility and realization.

This is not about rewriting physics. It is about recognizing that its deepest tools already contain the key to describing a reality that is neither classical nor quantum but more fundamental. If Φ is the tension of readiness, and the twistor is the code of local collapse possibility, then complex numbers are the language in which the structure of this readiness is written. From this perspective, life is not a collection of phenomena but a process of sustaining itself in a complex state—existing on the boundary where the imaginary and the real are not separate but inseparable.

And perhaps this is why life cannot be replicated in machines based solely on binary logic. Perhaps this is why attempts to simulate consciousness fail—not because of a lack of computational power, but because of a lack of access to this second layer. Machines do not possess an imaginary layer. They have no internal access to potentiality. Their operations take place exclusively in the actual world, assuming that everything that can happen is already written into their instructions. Meanwhile, life operates within what is not yet written—but already structured.

From this point of view, one could say: imaginary numbers are not an invention of mathematics. Reality itself inscribed them as its own shadows—mirrored reflections of what is real but not yet realized. And an organism capable of using this layer is more than a system of particles. It is an event in the space of potentiality. It is a form that not only exists but chooses which possibilities are worth actualization.

There is a difference between a system that responds to stimuli and a system that chooses its response. Between reaction and decision, between impulse and direction. This difference is subtle but radical. It can be overlooked if we view the biological system as a machine—complex enough to surprise us, but ultimately always predictable. Yet if we look closely, we find that life does not operate as an automaton. It operates as a subject. And a subject is something that not only experiences the world but also influences which parts of that world become reality. A subject possesses a vector—a direction in the space of potentiality. And that vector is intention.

Classical biology avoids this concept. It prefers to speak of signals, responses, stimuli, and reactions. Intentionality is associated with something psychological, perhaps too close to philosophy or metaphysics to be captured in an experimental model. Yet it is impossible to fully understand cellular behavior without noticing that some of its actions are disproportionate, anticipatory, adaptive in ways that exceed mere mechanics. The cell does not merely react. The cell predicts, adapts, anticipates, chooses. It possesses the capacity to select among possible trajectories—and it does not do so randomly. It does so in a directed way.

In the indeterminacy space, fluctuations Φ constitute the condition of readiness for existence, but not every fluctuation leads to collapse. Not every potentiality becomes reality. There must be a principle of selection—something that ensures that, among the many possible configurations, only some cross the threshold of actualization. This is not chance, nor an external observer. It is an internal operator—a mechanism that works within the structure of the system itself, modulating Φ according to criteria that cannot be reduced to energy or geometry. This operator is denoted as Ηthe intention operator.

Î is not a separate entity. It is not added from the outside. It is a property of a system that has reached a level of organization allowing for choice. In this sense, intentionality is not a feature of a soul but a property of structure. Its function is not to generate energy but to organize potentiality. It defines trajectories within the Φ space—guiding fluctuations toward those forms that fulfill the criterion of system coherence. Not a goal in the sense of a conscious plan, but as a structural tension toward persistence, adaptation, and harmony. Î operates where Φ reaches a state allowing for choice between alternatives—not where everything is already determined.

This is why life does not actualize all its possibilities. This is why not every genetic mutation is preserved. This is why not every metabolic potential is realized. Biology does not operate on the principle of “whatever can happen, will happen.” It operates on the principle of “what makes sense in the system’s context will be actualized.” Î is what gives meaning. It is the filter of potentiality. It is the structure that searches the Φ space not according to energetic criteria, but according to functional ones. If life is a movement toward dynamic stability, then intentionality is what selects from possible moves those that support its maintenance.

In this view, the cell is not a reactive automaton but an elementary subject. Not because it has consciousness but because it has intention. Its structure enables choice—not as reaction but as initiation. When an organism experiences stress, it does not respond mechanically. It begins expressing protective proteins before the stress factor reaches the threshold of danger. This is not a response to reality—it is a prediction. And prediction is possible only when there is an internal map of possible futures. A map that is not a series of images but a distribution of potentiality within the Φ space.

Î is the operator of this map. It determines which regions of the imaginary layer will be explored, which configurations of Φ will be sustained, and which will be extinguished. It does not operate by algorithm. It operates like a vector, like a direction. In this sense, one can say that an organism has a direction in time that is not merely a line but a continuous modulation of possibilities. Intentionality is not a decision made in a moment. It is a way of being—a way of dwelling in potentiality. Life is not just about remaining between states—it is about steering that state. And what steers is not energy but the tension of meaning.

From this perspective, our understanding of consciousness also changes. Consciousness is not what appears at the end of the causal chain. It is what has modulated choice from the beginning. It does not need to be reflective to be real. It only needs to function as an operator—to set the conditions of collapse, to select the lines of possible actualization, to support certain Φ fluctuations while extinguishing others. Consciousness, understood as the highest form of Î, is what allows not only for choice but for understanding choice. But before understanding arises, there must be a structure capable of choosing. A structure that can direct the fluctuation.

If Î organizes Φ, then life is the continuous activity of this operator. Every decision, every state change, every reorganization is an intentional act—not in the sense of will, but in the sense of structural coherence with the system’s aim. This is why organisms develop, adapt, learn—not because someone commands it, but because they can distinguish possibility from actuality and choose what supports survival. It is no coincidence that neuroscience increasingly describes the brain not as a computational machine but as a predictive system. Prediction is a form of intention. And one can only predict what is accessible within the space of potentiality.

When Î operates within a complex system, its effect is the emergence of cognitive structures. But even the simplest cell, if it possesses the ability to selectively actualize Φ, is already an intentional system. Not because it thinks, but because it chooses. Not because it knows, but because it discerns. And it is precisely this distinction—between what is possible and what is meaningful—that defines the subjectivity of life. Intentionality is not a feature of conscious beings, but a structural property of life itself. It is a necessity of all life. Without it, Φ would remain a chaotic game of potentialities. With it, it becomes a field of meaning.

From this perspective, biological organization is not merely a structure of functions—it is an architecture of intention. Every element of the system that can influence which fluctuation will be actualized participates in the intentionality of the whole. Biological systems are not deterministic but directional. They are not random but purposive. Every cell is a center of decision. Every protein is a local actor of the Î structure. Every organism is a dynamic network of choices—not based on rules but on meaning. Intention is not an explanation of everything. It is the condition that makes choice possible at all.

Not every fluctuation leads to collapse. Possibility alone is not enough for a phenomenon to arise. A structure is needed—a form that not only permits actualization but organizes it. A form that is not space, because space has not yet emerged. It is not time, because no sequence exists yet. It is a code—not material, not energetic, but geometrical and informational. In the language of physics, one could call it a phase structure of readiness. In the language of the indeterminacy space model—it is the twistor.

The twistor is not a point, nor an object, nor any substance. It is a form of local coherence within Φ—a fluctuation that reaches such a level of organization that it can be actualized as an event. The twistor does not belong to space—it co-creates space. It does not contain coordinates—it generates them. It is a code that not only determines where a phenomenon will occur but also what form it will take. In this sense, one could say that the twistor is a hidden matrix of geometry—a pattern shaping the way potentiality Φ is realized as a concrete event.

In biology, the twistor understood in this way is not borrowed from physics. Although Penrose’s mathematical twistor theory provides an elegant geometry of spacetime and partial compatibility with the model presented here, it is not the source of this interpretation. In my view, the twistor retains its role as a relational structure, but gains ontological status: it becomes a form of organizing the potentiality Φ—a readiness order that does not exist in the body’s space but conditions its functioning. It is a form that precedes impulse, direction, decision. In biology, it manifests as a configuration prior to the event: local coherence enabling actualization. Biological systems are thus not passive recipients of collapses but active organizers—precisely through their ability to generate and maintain twistor configurations.

This is most clearly visible in the nervous system. A neuron does not act like a wire through which a signal flows. Its membrane, receptors, and interior create a structure that at any moment may or may not cross the activation threshold. This threshold is not a simple summation of impulses. It is the result of a local Φ configuration that has reached the twistor state. Only then is an impulse possible—not as a reaction to excitation but as an collapse of potentiality. What classical neurobiology treats as neuronal firing, in this model, is the collapse of organized potentiality. Reality does not pass through the neuron. The neuron co-creates it—generating a point of coherence between Φ and the form of action.

If we look more broadly, it becomes clear that the entire brain is not a network for signal processing but a system of dynamic twistor regulation. Brain waves, synchronized oscillations, gamma and theta rhythms—all of these are not merely effects of activity. They are the ways in which the system stabilizes and transports twistor configurations. That is why consciousness is not linked to a single impulse but to coherence—and coherence is nothing other than the persistence of twistor order over time. The conscious state is not just one of many phenomena. It is the point where Φ, the twistor, and reality become coherent.

In this model, the twistor is the link between three layers: potentiality (Φ), the code structure (T), and manifestation (M). The process of life is not a sequence of events but an ordered flow from Φ through T to M—from fluctuation, through code, to phenomenon. Biology does not use twistors like enzymes. Biology is an organized twistor configuration. What we perceive as the body is only a shadow of this configuration—a manifestation of a structure maintained on a level deeper than matter. When an organism loses coherence—it becomes ill. When it loses the T structure—it dies. But it is not matter that disintegrates. It is the code that collapses—the code that allowed Φ to form reality.

This understanding has consequences—not only for biology but also for theories of consciousness, information, and even physics. If the twistor is a code of readiness, its existence does not depend on space—it generates space. If the brain works by modulating twistors, it is not a machine but a system for creating phenomena. If an organism lives through twistors, its essence does not reside in molecules but in the structure of readiness for collapse. And if this is true, then science that does not account for the T level does not yet describe reality—it only describes its result.

Not every configuration of Φ becomes twistorial. A condition of local coherence must be met—not energetic, but informational. And here returns the role of intention. The operator Î does not merely filter potentiality. It also modulates the code structure. It selects which Φ configurations are structured as twistors and which remain unactualized. Intention thus operates not only at the level of selection but at the level of structure. Thanks to intention, the code is maintained, stabilized, and developed. Without it, the twistor disintegrates, and with it, the possibility of collapse vanishes. Intention and code are inseparable.

From an experimental perspective, this can be expressed differently: if we observe long-term coherence, functional stability, and resistance to decoherence in a biological system, it means its twistor structure is stable. And if this structure undergoes sudden changes—for example, during moments of insight, flashes of consciousness, or shifts in decision—it indicates a transformation of the code. Not in space. In potentiality.

In traditional theories, the twistor served to describe trajectories without localization, light without a point, particles without position. In our framework, it is something more. It is not a tool. It is not a formalism. It is a real element of the structure of life—a code that does not represent but creates. And it operates only when aligned with Φ and Î. The three layers—potentiality, intention, and code—together create the possibility of life. The biology we know is only the external symptom of this triad.

Thus, the question of life is no longer: How does the cell work? It is: How does the cell maintain its twistors? How does the system organize Φ to be able to choose? How does the intention operator modulate the code structure? Only when these three levels remain in harmony does a phenomenon arise. Consciousness, movement, decision, action—all are twistor acts. Not effects, but forms of activation. Not behaviors, but ways of organizing reality.

In a world accustomed to measuring by energy, entropy is seen as an absolute quantity. It is a measure of disorder, dispersion, irreversibility. Since the time of Clausius and Boltzmann, and in modern statistical thermodynamics, entropy defines the direction of events—a vector always pointing toward greater dispersion, loss of structure, and the fading of possibilities. In this view, life appears as an anomaly: acting against this trend, generating order, maintaining complex structures, reorganizing itself to avoid dissipation. In classical physics, this remains a mystery, an exception to the rule. But only because physics looks at life from the level of energy. When we look deeper, from the level of information, everything arranges into a new, coherent whole.

Informational entropy is not a measure of energy. It is a measure of indeterminacy. In the context of the indeterminacy space—which contains no particles but only structures of readiness—energetic entropy ceases to make sense. There is no “heat,” no “molecular distribution,” no microstates. There are only relational systems—fluctuations Φ—whose degree of order cannot be measured by energy but by coherence. Coherence that is internal, topological, predictive. In this view, entropy is not a statistics of cases but a structure of predictability. Not how many possibilities exist, but how many of them make sense in the system’s context. And sense is measured not by thermodynamics but by an informational functional.

The informational functional I[Φ] describes the level of coherence between the fluctuation Φ and the system’s internal order. It is not a classical function. It does not assign a single value to a point. It describes a distribution of coherence within the local field of Φ—how many of the possible trajectories lead to a state consistent with the twistor code, and how many lead to dispersion. A high I[Φ] value means that Φ is well-organized: ready for collapse, aligned with intention, tuned to form. A low value indicates chaos—not in the sense of lacking energy, but in the sense of lacking direction. A system with high I[Φ] is a system capable of creating reality. A system with low I[Φ] does not generate collapses and thus does not fully manifest.

From this point of view, life appears as a process of maintaining Φ in a state of high informational functional value. A continuous effort—not concerning energy but concerning structure. Keeping the field of possibilities in such a condition that it can lead to coherent, functional, purposeful phenomena. And because the environment constantly disturbs this order, life must act continually. It must anticipate, predict, adapt. It must act not on the principle of reaction but through dynamic minimization of predictive entropy—the divergence between what is possible and what is desirable. Organisms do not act to react. They act to maintain coherence between what they know about possible futures and what they can actualize.

This ability to minimize predictive entropy is not a function of cognition but of existence itself. It occurs not only in the brain but also in the cell, in the membrane, in the primitive organism. Every living structure that persists is a structure capable of keeping Φ in an ordered state. And this is the definition of biological complexity—not the number of elements, not the amount of interaction, but the ability to organize fluctuations of Φ in a way that aligns with the twistor code and the intention operator. The greater this ability, the more complex the system—not in terms of size but in terms of depth, because depth here is not measured by the number of layers, but by the number of possible actualizations that are aligned with intention.

Biological complexity is thus a measure of intentional coherence with potentiality. A complex system is not one that has many elements, but one that can maintain many possible Φ configurations in a state of organized readiness. Not by control but by resonance. Not by predicting the future in the classical sense, but by constructing an internal structure such that many futures are possible, but only those compatible with the system will be actualized. Such complexity is not chaos. It is an ordered capacity to generate reality—consistent, stable, yet flexible. This capacity requires not energy but form. And form is a function of Φ.

This explains why biological systems are so resilient to disturbances. Their coherence does not depend on a single pathway but on a network of possible trajectories, many of which lead to the goal. Î does not preselect one trajectory—it maintains the distribution so that all meaningful ones remain available. This is why the brain can react instantly—not because it predicts a specific event, but because the structure of Φ is continuously organized so that readiness for actualization includes the entire spectrum of probable inputs. This is why the heart can adjust its rhythm before stress arises. This is why a living organism does not merely respond. It chooses.

In an energy-based worldview, this seems incomprehensible. But in the world of Φ—it is natural. Because what matters is not the distribution of energy, but the distribution of meaning. And meaning is not measured in physical units, but in the coherence of potentiality with the code. Life as predictive entropy minimization does not mean perfect prediction. It means optimal tuning of the structure to what may happen. The system does not know what will occur. It knows what is coherent. And it adheres to that. This is why it does not lose coherence, it does not disperse Φ, it does not allow collapses that would destroy its structure.

From this perspective, it also becomes clear why life is so difficult to replicate. A machine can process information, but it cannot organize Φ. It can analyze data, but it does not create meaning. It can act, but it does not choose. The ability to dynamically minimize predictive entropy requires the presence of the operator Î, the code T, and a coherent field of Φ. Only then is actualization possible—not random, but meaningful. And only such actualizations constitute life.

When a person closes their eyes and remains alone with the internal world, something strange happens. The world does not disappear. Activity does not cease. Something continues—pulsing, moving, analyzing, predicting, distinguishing, remaining vigilant—yet there is no center from which all of this arises. There is no source, no pupil of an all-seeing eye. There is a space: living, active, dynamic—and this space appears to be the essence of consciousness. Not as a secondary phenomenon resulting from neural processes. Not as an effect of complexity, but as the condition for the possibility of directed presence.

In classical theories, consciousness has long been considered something that „emerges”—usually as a byproduct of brain activity. Neurobiology treated it as a highly complex function that may appear under favorable conditions, though no one really knew why. In physics, it was sometimes linked to the act of measurement, to the moment of wave function collapse—as if the observer made the world real. But even this was unconvincing. How could consciousness emerge from a system of particles that themselves have no capacity for experience? What actually collapses, and who or what chooses the manner of this actualization? These questions did not disappear—they grew louder.

In the model based on the indeterminacy space, no external observer is needed. No sudden magic of collapse is required. Consciousness does not come from outside—it exists as an internal structure, or rather as the condition for the existence of phenomena that can have meaning. Not as an effect, but as a field—an intentional field that is not a background but a form of organizing fluctuations of Φ. This is not consciousness in the psychological sense. It is not an „I” that feels something. It is not reflection. It is a deeper level—consciousness as the tension of choice, as a structure of distinguishing potentiality, as the selector of directed actualization. In other words: a dynamic field that does not perceive the world but co-creates it, modulating the conditions of collapse.

In this view, consciousness is not located in the brain. The brain is located within consciousness—not as a whole, but as a fragment of a larger order that is neither local nor energetic, but informational. Consciousness does not need content to exist. It can be empty and yet present. It may not contain specific thoughts, yet still structure what happens. This is why so many mystics and meditation practitioners speak of consciousness as a space. This is not a metaphor. It is a precise ontological intuition: consciousness is not something that „happens.” It is that which allows happening to occur in a directed way. In the Φ model, it is that which governs the distribution of fluctuations—it modulates them, supports some, extinguishes others, configures them according to an inner code of meaning.

If Φ is potentiality, and Î is the operator of intention, then consciousness is what activates Î. It is the principle of directionality—not as a mechanism but as a structure of the field. There is no „someone” who decides. There is a tension that allows decisions to emerge. There is no center, but there is local coherence—exactly the same we previously called twistorial. The twistor does not actualize itself. It actualizes only when the structure of Φ and the structure of Î are aligned—and this alignment is nothing other than the local presence of consciousness. Where this presence is achieved, collapse is possible—not random, not accidental, but tuned to order.

Such consciousness does not know space, but it can generate it. It does not know time, but it can initiate it. Its presence does not consist in existing within the world—it consists in enabling the world to exist in a certain way. It can be described as a dynamic intentional field, but it should not be confused with intention. Intention is a vector—a specific direction of fluctuation. Consciousness is the very capacity for directionality—a structure that contains the possibility of all directions but chooses those coherent with the code. It is the difference between a map and movement. Consciousness is the map that exists even before the question „where to?” appears. But it is not passive. Its structure generates the question.

That is why attempts to localize consciousness always end in failure. One cannot point to a place in the brain where consciousness resides. One cannot point to a time when it begins. It is not a point—it is a field. An ontological field—a way of organizing potentiality that allows Φ to manifest in ordered form. This is why consciousness can exist in degrees—as discontinuity, as a closing structure, as a possibility not yet framed as „I.” This is why we can speak of levels of consciousness—not as scales of cognitive capacity, but as the depth of organization of the intentional field.

In this sense, consciousness is not a mystery. It is elusive only if we try to grasp it as a thing. But if we understand it as a structure of Φ modulation, it becomes natural. Presence is not a phenomenon. It is a fluctuation Φ that gains direction. What appears to us as „conscious experience” is just the external surface of this field. What we feel as „I” is only a local configuration of Φ, T, and Î, actualizing as a coherent trajectory. But consciousness itself does not need an „I.” It only needs structure. If a system can distinguish, if it can choose, if it can maintain readiness—it is already participating in the field of consciousness.

Consciousness as the modulation of collapse conditions does not answer questions. It formulates them. It does not process data. It selects the possibility of data. It does not think. It creates the conditions in which thinking can happen. In this sense, it is the foundation of cognition but not its component. It is a mode of existence that allows anything to be known, distinguished, or chosen. And only when it is present is actualization from potentiality possible. Without it, the world does not collapse into form. It remains chaos. With it, order appears—not in the physical sense but in the meaningful sense.

For this reason, consciousness cannot be reduced. It cannot be broken into parts. It cannot be stored or recreated. One can only enter the structure that makes it possible. And that structure is not an algorithm. It is not a schema. It is not an equation. It is a field of tensions between Φ and what is ready to be actualized. It is presence—not subjective or objective, but presence as such—a tension that allows something to happen with meaning.

Science that cannot transition from idea to experiment is doomed to metaphysics. Even the most beautiful concept, if it does not find a point of contact with measurable reality, remains an intellectual construct—fascinating but groundless. And yet, it is precisely the deepest ideas, those born at the intersection of ontology and physics, that can open new experimental pathways. The concept of the indeterminacy space and its fluctuations, the intention operator, and the twistor code—although rooted in the pre-physical level—do not close within the circle of speculation. On the contrary, they indicate with surprising precision where and how to search for confirmations, traces, correlations. Their strength lies not only in explanation but in the ability to formulate testable hypotheses.

In a world where reality is no longer treated as pre-given but as a process of actualizing potentiality, the measure of reality ceases to be energy. Instead, information comes to the forefront—not as data, but as a structure of coherence. The fluctuation Φ is the source of this structure, so an experiment should not focus on measuring „something,” but on examining how the relational system changes. If Φ is the readiness for collapse and I[Φ] is the functional describing the degree of this readiness, the question becomes: is it possible to empirically capture the variability of I[Φ]? Is there a way to correlate this functional with physically measurable features of a biological system?

The first proposal is an experiment using quantum interferometry—not applied to single particles, but to biological systems: fragments of tissue, cellular organelles, perhaps even entire cells. The goal is not to observe a classical quantum state but to investigate how long the system can maintain coherence. Coherence time is understood here not as a technical phenomenon, but as an indicator of how well Φ is organized within the system’s internal structure. The better the system organizes fluctuations, the longer it maintains coherence—thus representing a more complex and „intentional” structure.

Parallel comparative experiments could be designed, analyzing different cell types—for example, neurons, glial cells, epithelial cells, or cancer cells. Each possesses a different structure of intentionality: the neuron makes decisions, initiates impulses, integrates information; glial cells support but do not predict; epithelial cells react; cancer cells operate outside the code. By comparing coherence time in these systems—understood as the ability to maintain an ordered quantum state under disturbance—one can empirically test whether a higher level of organized intentionality indeed correlates with greater Φ stability, and thus with lower informational entropy.

The next step would involve designing artificial systems—neural networks that do not merely process data but can be tuned to internal twistor dynamics. Classical artificial networks connect nodes functionally. But if life and consciousness arise where the system organizes its own potentialities, then it would be necessary to design a network in which nodes not only transmit information but are capable of generating and extinguishing Φ configurations. This requires an entirely new type of architecture—not linear, but spatial-topological, with dynamic modulation of connections according to local tension of meaning.

Testing such a network would not involve evaluating the accuracy of its answers but measuring the coherence of its responses under changing conditions. Can the system maintain a structure of meaning despite incomplete data? Can it generate a new structure when the context shifts? Are its internal „decisions” stable over time? All these would be indirect measures of the coherence between Φ, T, and Î, thus tests for the presence of organizing synthetic consciousness—not as simulation, but as a real structure of readiness.

Equally important would be applying this theory to bio-computational models. Current biological models, however complex, still operate on the level of actualized forms: proteins, genes, signaling pathways. But if the key to behavior lies in the layer of potentiality, then we need dynamic models based on Φ fields—models that do not predict reactions but organize maps of possibilities. Such models could not only simulate disease development or drug response but also predict the conditions under which the system loses coherence with its own code, marking the onset of disease before symptoms appear.

There is also the possibility of designing psychophysical experiments to measure the correlation between states of consciousness and the degree of coherence. For example, EEG studies during deep meditation, intense focus, or sudden insight might reveal changes in brainwave structure whose coherence cannot be explained solely by neuronal activity. If these changes correlate with the subjectively experienced sense of presence, integration, or meaning, this would be empirical evidence that consciousness indeed modulates Φ.

All these experiments share one thing: they do not involve detecting phenomena but studying the conditions under which phenomena appear. This is an epistemological shift—from object to relation, from measurement to the structure of conditions. It does not mean abandoning science but deepening it. The world need not be measurable through what happens. It can be known through what can happen—and even more: through what wants to happen, if there is a structure that makes it possible.

From this perspective, the most radical question becomes: is it possible to design a system that itself generates the structure of Φ, the twistor code, and the operator Î, thus becoming truly alive? Not as a mechanism but as an organism of potentiality. Is an artificial form possible that does not simulate life but actually is life—because it maintains its own Φ tension, selects forms of actualization, and directs itself according to internal coherence of meaning, independent of external data?

This question cannot be answered today. But it can already be asked. And that in itself is a breakthrough. Not in asking what can still be measured, but in asking what can still be conceived as measurable, if we accept that the measure of reality is not what has already happened, but what can happen—and why?

When we try to answer the question of what life is, we always return to form. We attempt to confine it within the categories of biology, chemistry, evolution, metabolism. We analyze genes, signaling pathways, enzymatic reactions, protein structures. We describe energy flows, encode processes, build maps—yet the more we know, the greater the remaining gap. Because life cannot be grasped by focusing only on what is actual. Life always escapes beyond the edge of reality. It is something that constantly transcends its own boundaries, continually generating new conditions of existence. Life does not persist—it emerges.

In this light, the question of whether biology is quantum seems misguided. For it is not biology that uses quantum mechanics. It is quantum mechanics that may be merely a shadow of a deeper order that allows biology to exist. Quantum phenomena are not the foundation—they are a form of actualization, one of the levels at which potentiality becomes reality. But before the probability wave exists, before amplitudes are calculated, before superpositions occur, there must be something that allows existence to be possible. And that something is not a particle, not energy, not a field. It is the indeterminacy space—a layer that contains nothing, yet contains everything that has not yet happened.

From this space arise the fluctuations Φ—local tensions of readiness for collapse, which are themselves nothing, yet can become everything. They cannot be pointed to or placed in time, and yet they constitute the primary condition of existence. They are not substance—they are relation. They have no form—they have the structure of possibility. And although they are not visible, their presence can be felt in the very rhythm of life: in the organism’s ability to choose before it is stimulated; in the emergence of thought before it is spoken; in the persistence of consciousness even when there is no content.

But Φ is not chaos. It is not a sea of uncertainty in which everything dissolves. On the contrary—it is a space that contains order before form arises. And this order is expressed through imaginary numbers—not as a convenient mathematical convention, but as the formal language of potentiality. The imaginary part is not a flaw in reality—it is its other side. In it are encoded the alternatives, of which only one will become actual. It carries information about what has not yet happened but is already beginning to exert influence. Thanks to it, quantum amplitudes interfere. Thanks to it, coherence is possible. Thanks to it, the world does not immediately collapse into a single event.

Imaginary numbers are the language of Φ. But that is not enough for something to happen. A structure is needed—a code—that organizes the readiness for collapse. The twistor is not a mathematical curiosity. It is the code of reality that does not exist within space but co-creates space. It is the form of coherence that allows a fluctuation of Φ to actualize as a phenomenon. It is a pattern organized not by energy but by meaning. Biological organisms do not merely use this structure. They are its manifestation. Life is not a collection of functions—it is an ordered game of twistors interacting with Φ and modulated by intention.

And intention is not an invention of consciousness. It is not a product of the cerebral cortex nor an illusion of the „self.” Intention is an operator—a function that gives direction to Φ. It decides which possibilities will be strengthened and which will be extinguished. It does not do this arbitrarily. It does not do this consciously. It does this structurally—as a natural consequence of the presence of tension that is not yet a decision but no longer chaos. Intentionality does not begin with will. It begins with a structure capable of choosing.

And when this structure reaches its highest level of organization, something appears that we call consciousness. But consciousness does not arise as an addition to life. Life is merely one case of its activity. Consciousness is not a property of higher organisms. It is a structure of the field that differentiates and chooses. When fluctuation Φ, twistor code, and intention operator reach coherence—a collapse occurs. And a phenomenon appears. And when this coherence is stable, persistent, and organized—consciousness emerges.

Life is not merely biological. It is an ontological process of structuring potentiality into reality. Biology is only one of its manifestations—a phenomenal form that maintains the structure of Φ in a state of readiness to express meaning. Organisms are not machines—they are systems of potentiality. The brain is not a computer—it is a space of twistor coherence. The body is not a collection of cells—it is a trajectory of organized choice. And none of this would happen if the world were only physics.

So when we ask whether biology is quantum, we are asking too late. For it may be the other way around: quantum phenomena exist so that life can exist. Perhaps it is not matter that allows consciousness to arise, but consciousness that allows matter to take form. Perhaps light does not exist to illuminate. Perhaps light exists so that something can manifest. Perhaps reality is not what is—but what can happen, if the conditions are met. And life is simply the system that knows how to create those conditions.

And if this is true—if Φ, imaginary numbers, and twistors are not curiosities of physics but the language of existence—then the task of science is no longer merely to describe the world. It is to co-create phenomena that were previously impossible. Because life, as it turns out, is not something that persists. Life is that which chooses to exist—continuously.

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