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The echoes (of memory). It is interesting how the mind divides itself into different scenarios, people, beliefs, and personas—and gets caught up with itself, both in dreams and during the day.

Like seeing or hearing something, and that observation evoking a memory, which then triggers reactions from other memories within then mind. Memory reacting to memory, and sometimes going into a loop, like the song which is stuck in our mind, same thoughts going on and on for no particular reason, exhausting energy of the brain.

Speaking of the external world outside of us—does it even exist to us at all? The perception of the senses is limited; it is quite obvious that the perception developed by this thing we are—the human being—does not encompass the entire spectrum of what is out there. Other animals have senses far beyond ours, like the highly sensitive sense of smell and hearing in dogs. And then there are perceptions completely alien to us, like the ability of birds to sense Earth’s magnetic field for navigation, sharks detecting electrical signals from living beings, or ants communicating through pheromones in ways we cannot even begin to understand. So, is there anything truly external in what our brain perceives? Can we actually know the outer world, or is it merely a recreation of signals picked up from outside of us, where this brain can only see a fraction of what exists — one that may not even match how it truly is?

It’s difficult to define what all of this existence truly is—what we really are—without relying on any belief or concept. It’s strange, isn’t it? To go around “living,” whatever that means, without truly understanding what it’s all about. And we seem to be living in illusions created within the human brain for thousands of years, if not hundreds of thousands—or even millions.

There have been thoughts in the writer’s mind in the recent past—whether this entity we are, the one that forms opinions and speaks, whether outwardly or within, is actually the body. This is a tricky one, as there are bodily processes completely beyond our control or even our awareness—like digestion, the healing of wounds, or the body forcing us to throw up when we drink too much alcohol. The act of vomiting isn’t “us” in the sense of the thinking, identifying self. It is simply the processes within the body, on its own, rejecting poison.

Yet, identification creeps in, permeating the mind. The thinking, seemingly the “I,” says, “I” threw up—identifying itself with bodily actions beyond its control. “I” am sick. The body’s processes are absorbed into this ever-growing “I.” “My” experience, “my” memory, “my” nationality, “my” religion—things are taken in and attached to the ever-expanding identity. And in the collective system of the mind, which might be same process, but with the word “our” more so than “I”, which are both essentially the same: “our” beliefs, “our” country, “our” people.

But what is actually real? What is the truth of things? What are we? What is all of this? Why do we have thoughts—what even are thoughts? What is thinking? Why does identification arise? What is it within the brain that clings to beliefs? What is this state of “living” compared to something lifeless, like concrete or stone? Why are we living things so different from a lifeless rock? What is it that separates the living—humans, birds, dogs, trees—from the things that do not live? A lot of difficult questions at once, isn’t it? But these are not questions to be merely read, expecting an answer from another. It’s like swimming on a boat; we don’t know the boat, we don’t know the waters—we’re just adrift in the dark, with a small candle of limited, perhaps even useless, concepts of ourselves and the world, living without knowing what drives our brains, why we are the way we are. I’m afraid we are truly blind human beings, and it seems the world as a whole is perfectly fine with it, with not knowing the answers to these questions. Not knowing what we are seems absolutely normal, even desired.

It’s interesting to see that we are much closer to other animals than to trees or plants, which feel so alien to us—mere decoration, incapable of communication. No eyes to look into, no ears to speak to, no hands to hold. The existence of trees is so foreign. They live, but where is the center of that life? They have no brain, no muscles like other animals, no way of asking them anything. And we do not even know if a tree is aware that we exist, aside maybe from the sensation of being cut off by metal and suddenly disappearing out of existence, the end of having life, and life slipping away for some strange reason. (It is interesting to notice that before the mind developed the ability to think in ways that manipulated the outer world to create and craft things, leading to the invention of tools, there wasn’t much that could kill a tree on a massive scale, aside from natural disasters like avalanches or lava from an erupted volcano—events that happened rarely anyway).

Is truth something to be uncovered—stripped of the layers of illusion we live in? The illusion of nationalities, of ideas, of separation between “me” and “you”? Perhaps separation is easier to feel because we evolved to carry different faces—we don’t look like clones, identical to one another. Is that part of what makes us see each other as separate, even though we are the same species? I’d say it certainly contributes to the illusion. And if everyone died, leaving only one man and one woman, they would carry the entirety of the human genetic line—the entirety of humanity—within them. So what are we then?

And why are we not asking these questions seriously? Why do we accept what others tell us—a priest, a guru, or any other authority? Most seem content with stories, with being told what is. It is easier that way, being handed answers instead of searching for them—especially when we don’t even know where to look or if these answers are even possible to find.

They made The Matrix, the movie, but aren’t we already living in an illusion? A human brain destroying other human brains in wars, or enslaved by a society of its own creation. The brain we inherit at birth is not ours alone—us, individuals with only one life—it is the product of millions of years of evolution. It is something ancient, not created at the moment of our birth. Shaped over an unimaginable span of time.

So what are we? Are we the language we use? Language itself was not always as it is now. Long ago, it must have been a primitive form of sounds, and even further back, something even more basic—or entirely different. Have you noticed how dominated we are by language? We believe lies, forgetting our inherited ability to read people through perception without interpretation. We focus on words alone and become confused because words can say anything. And in losing this ability, or making it dormant, we now buy books on how to read people—learning once again, through language, how to read people without language. Learning body “language” through words.

So many questions—an endless inquiry into all things. I will leave this post here, as it is already long enough. I fear even an entire book wouldn’t be enough to convey it all.