Memories are a kind of myth

At some point, the past can no longer exist. There’s only so much a brain can hold. As much as we wish to remain objective, survival makes it impossible. Eventually, we start telling ourselves stories to make the present worth living.

In our dreams we see the past clearly. A wonderland of hope and fear. A blur that can last forever. A carousel of emotions stuck on a turning point. What we remember from our dreams is the yearning for the best of yesterday to remain true.

But what if the present is an ever-lasting nightmare? And what if the nightmare is worth living after all?

We’re all entrapped by schemes of our own making. By nature, stories are misleading. If they can’t take us away from reality, even for a moment, we wouldn’t believe them. That’s not to say that stories are lies. Stories help us understand why we lie. Stories help us grasp the motive power of the world. What motivates human beings to betray their own self-interest in service of power? How is a nation any different than a pack of teenagers searching for a thrill?

Memories are no different from the grand concept of history in the way they both seek to rewrite the past. We must rewrite the past to make sense of it. And we do it all the time. If it’s impossible to understand how the world came to be, what hope is there for objective truth?

So the next time you hear people talking about the past, just remember that past only lives inside their heads. In our heads we have a pantheon of jealous gods fighting each other all the time. In our heads we remember being lost in the forest searching for a house made of chocolate. There are false idols and misunderstood monsters and overbearing parents racing endlessly toward something shiny on the horizon, whatever it is.

We bask in the glory of myth.

One day, the myth will come true.