Looking back is flawed, like a book of our lives written by someone else - close perhaps, but never entirely accurate. Representations really, of how others see us, or even perhaps how we ourselves wish to be seen, but lacking the elation or fear which prompted us to act; the near-impossible to disclose or reenact. The assumed faith or assembled logic stretching back our entire life providing needed courage at the right moment.
Photographs show the smiles, the fun times - activities which we wish to share with the world - never the fear or pain or psychosis which envelopes us from time to time - that which we wish hidden from public view, from reproach. Temporary insanities we tell ourselves are only short-lived afflictions. We don't bring out the camera in an attempt to capture the daily horror we live with; photographs make poor tools of accuracy.
False memories are those arguably real places created from nothing but our own flawed beliefs. They're our source of strength when we need them to be but contain zero defensible logic which is incomprehensible to anyone but ourselves - Why can't they see it? we would ask ourselves if we were smart enough to notice the entire world acting antithetically to our understanding of how things ought to be.
But that's just it, isn't it? We know we're not smart enough to be right about everything all the time, yet we refuse to lose face. Better to be confused and unhappy on the inside than to let anyone see that shit on the outside. Assuming we're right is what keeps us dumb - it closes our mind to new possibilities. Oh, we'll say we're open-minded while we nod and feign understanding, but our behavior reveals we don't comprehend anything.
There are those who ask questions. Who never say aloud, "I know myself just fine," because they know it would be a lie. They seek themselves. They seek answers to their thoughts, their reactions, their recall, their intelligence, their moods, and all the nuances that link all those together. Knowing that how they perceived something would have been reflected by how they felt at the time and compensating for that knowledge through their behavior. And if they can't precisely articulate what it is they think and they feel, they never stop trying.
The longer I live, the less I find to be angry about. Yet it would seem, from my very limited perspective, more and more people are getting angrier and angrier about less and less. At the drop of a hat, from calm to immeasurably upset - about the fact that there is a hat and wasn't supposed to be one, and the fact that it dropped, despite its existence being a total surprise. I have asked these people why they are so angry, and the question seems to only fuel that anger. They don't know.
Imagine living in a world where you didn't know why you were angry all the time, pretended to be open-minded, knew you weren't smart enough to be right about everything, and believed in things which didn't even exist [false memories]?
God that would frustrate me. I once asked the question, "Don't those people want to not be frustrated?" The reply was, Yes, they know it, and yes they try not to be frustrated, they really try. They just fail, because the universe doesn't work the way they think it should, and because they refuse to update their thinking.
While I understood that answer two years ago, what I didn't understand, was how chillingly accurate it was.