Time flies.

One moment you’re here doing this, the next you’re over there doing that. Everything becomes a memory in your own head, and while others might share the same sort of memory in time, it is never the exact same recollection. Each mind focuses on what marks them, and what marks an individual is always slightly different from what marks another. Everything we do now is a fleeting moment already linked to the past.

There is no future as such, only a chain of events unfolding from one previous action to the next.

Thus, I am left to wonder if all we really are in the end isn’t a mere collection of memories. After all, what is left beyond time passing to prove our own existence but the memories created? Do I not know who I am because I remember the chain of events that unfolded so far in my existence? I might not remember everything in exact detail, but I remember the general trend. Yet memories are famously unreliable.
The mere fact that the brain has the tendency to embellish them, if not cut out the worst out of them, makes me question the impact of memories on a person’s own view of themselves or their life as a whole.

Facts linked to the past can sometimes be verified, and based on the general consensus that we people as a whole exist and share the same physical vision of reality (We all see the same row of houses in the distance, or the sun rising over a canopy of trees and agree that these things exist), we can often agree that we went to a certain place at a certain given time. For instance, I remember working at a cinema in London. The make-up of memories is such that it can easily be compared to a dream-like vision in the mind’s eye. When I remember that cinema, there is nothing in the present to prove that the memory I have in fact happened in the past. However, I can go back to that cinema, and either meet people who would vouch for me that I did work there at some point in the past, or there could be some paperwork still existing and proving that I was once a worker in that place.

Objects or facts - what remains more or less unchanged throughout the course of time- become the most reliable constant or anchor for us, changing vectors on the spectrum of time. Those constants or anchors enable us to at least create a more reliable timeline of existence. So... What about the self?

What is there to ensure that what I remember of my self is accurate? If I read back things I wrote about myself, or about certain feelings I experienced in time, I am often unable to relate to such feelings anymore and often I realise that I would have completely forgotten about such feelings, had I not written them down as a form of anchor. If I delve into the memories of my life so far, my whole existence is based on a recollection. There is nothing concrete or real apart from that split second that constitutes the present. In many ways, my existence is forever drowning in a dream-like realm which does not exist in our physical reality.

Right now, I am sipping coffee, but once I have finished drinking, the act of sipping coffee will belong to the past. I could repeat that action often enough to blur the line between past and present, in the sense that the repetition of action will give me the illusion of continuity in time. Once an action is past, it no longer exists.

I am left to ponder on the task I set for myself which was to get to know my true self. If all that I am ends up almost instantly filed under the realm of memories, then how do I ensure that what I remember of me is accurate? We see that we can at least base ourselves on physical anchors, but those only reflect physical existence relative to time and space. I can only ensure that the memories of my existence are accurate in terms of physical presence in some place or other. As such, I can prove that I grew up in Paris by simply looking into the lasting existence of paperwork such as a birth certificate and school records. I can prove that I moved to London, or that I traveled abroad by looking into my passport and see the stamps on the pages. I can prove that I knew a certain person if that other person acknowledge my person, and so on. But how do I prove that what I know about my self is accurate? Because the search for knowledge into your own self is based on introspection, it must necessarily rest on memories. And memories beyond physical anchors is fickle. In fact, don’t I remember more the places and actions I took as a child than the precise feelings I went through? I could have a vague recollection of feeling sad or angry at some point in the past, but what is there as a physical anchor to prove that what I felt at that time was precisely that sort of sadness or anger I seem to remember?

Writing becomes the sole anchor available to keep a grip on memories’ reliability, beyond that the margin of error becomes far too great to be trusted.
Ideally, one would need to write about everything that is happening now in detail, focusing on the feelings and thoughts, to catch a glimpse of the true self as it unfolds beyond the ever-changing nature of the human mind. Then again, if one was to write absolutely everything close to the present time, then they would have no time to exist in action. I reach a catch 22 situation where a second-best solution must be adopted, which is roughly to write as much as possible without letting the writing interfere too much with the present of living.

I am reaching the point where I wonder why it appears so important to me to know myself truly. What is the core reason for such an obsession? What is the point?

My unwillingness to be a random vector on a spectrum might be what pushes me to try and make sense of reality. I cannot find the right words to express my thoughts on the matter just yet. My gut feeling has known for some time now that the whole must be more important than the detail, so that the individual himself becomes of lesser importance than humanity. Yet I fail to see clearly the thread of thought that would lead me to that conclusion. It might well be my own individual side playing tricks on me as I refuse, somehow, to accept that conclusion because I cannot accept my own insignificance outside humanity as a whole.

In some ways, it is easy in theory to reach the conclusion that humanity is more meaningful than the individual self, yet when I look at the individual in detail, it is as though I can see a miniature of humanity itself locked into one person. I know I’m missing an important point, and I have missed that point for some time now. It bothers me, but I can’t find it.

There is something about reality and illusions that bears a significant impact on the meaning of life, I’m pretty sure of that much. Time and gravity play a part in the equation, but I have yet to arrange all of them in the order they should be placed to find the correct solution.

My gut instinct tells me that the key rests on the ability to peel off every single illusion cushioning reality, like one would the skin of an orange. Yet every time I attempt just that, it gets harder to pursue that quest. It leads me to wonder whether we’re even supposed to do that.

Perhaps we, humans, aren’t supposed to peel off the layers of illusions, perhaps we are supposed to remain immersed in them for our own good.

But... That makes no sense to me. Just as I don’t understand why endless questioning of everything should be frowned upon by the majority. If there are people in this world who are capable to choose to kill, for instance, then why should peeling off layers of illusions be such a massive task that could take away your sanity in the end?

Perhaps the issue is as old and complex as the chicken and the egg and which came first.
The lack of certainty as to the meaning or purpose of life means that we immerse ourselves in what makes existence easier to bear. If we had a clear answer as to the purpose of life, then we might be less frightened to look at reality beyond the illusions. Until then, we are doomed to follow man-made beliefs and deluded ideas we might come up with for a purpose.