Some of the greatest thinkers we know of; Plato, Aristotle, Socrates - pondered the nature of existence. Who are we? What is our purpose? Why do we exist? Over the centuries, other great thinkers have discovered more ways to ask the same questions. Other than Douglas Adams' Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy answer of '42', the answer remains the same.
We Don't Know.
Are we random collections of molecules? The creation of an omnipotent God? A genetic mutation of a space going species? Did we evolve through millennia due to superior intelligence?
On a personal level, my fight against Depression has revolved around the question: Who am I?
I'm no closer to knowing myself, than a cat is to recognizing it's own reflection.
After describing that, and added to my thoughts on the thinking about 'self', this is how I see myself right now: I'm the final doll, but hollow. I have no sense of having something within to protect. That there's simply nothing in here. An empty shell. For a long time I've had the visualization in my head of each stage of the doll being made from the broken pieces of the previous one. There's only so much material to work with, so each layer is thinner and less sturdy than the one before.
We Don't Know.
Are we random collections of molecules? The creation of an omnipotent God? A genetic mutation of a space going species? Did we evolve through millennia due to superior intelligence?
On a personal level, my fight against Depression has revolved around the question: Who am I?
I'm no closer to knowing myself, than a cat is to recognizing it's own reflection.
There's the 'me' that my family sees, the 'me' my children see, the 'me' casual acquaintances see, the 'me' co-workers see, the 'me' that is seen online, the 'me' that friends see, and there's the 'me' that I hear in my head. NONE of them are real, all of them exist, and I am to everyone of 'me'; as an actor is to a character they play.
Every 'me' is a facet, a mask, a perspective; protecting the inner me, from the barbs and slings of reality. Like the outside layer of a Matryoshka doll, hiding fragile versions within.
Every 'me' is a facet, a mask, a perspective; protecting the inner me, from the barbs and slings of reality. Like the outside layer of a Matryoshka doll, hiding fragile versions within.
Matryoshka dolls are fascinating to me, in them I see a representation of growth. You begin with the smallest doll. The infant. Then a layer that's bigger, and protects the infant, the child. The infant remains within the child, gives it weight, a sense of self. The third doll, I see as the youth. Not yet fully matured, but more developed than the child, and so the infant too; encasing them both in another layer of protection. After the youth, the adult. Clearly developed, embellished a little, encompassing the youth, child, and infant. Finally the maturest of them all. The 'complete' person. Containing all of the elements of life, infant, child, youth, and adult. Within the whole, all the flaws, learning, experience, and growth the doll represents [to me].
After describing that, and added to my thoughts on the thinking about 'self', this is how I see myself right now: I'm the final doll, but hollow. I have no sense of having something within to protect. That there's simply nothing in here. An empty shell. For a long time I've had the visualization in my head of each stage of the doll being made from the broken pieces of the previous one. There's only so much material to work with, so each layer is thinner and less sturdy than the one before.
I'm learning to handle with care.
Derri.
Derri.
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