On memory, identity, and the quiet deaths we live through.
HomeI've always been drawn to the question of who we really are, underneath all the habits, memories, and expectations. What would be left if you stripped away your routines, your roles, and the stories you tell yourself? Not man or woman, not even "human" — just being. It's a strange, unsettling thought. But there's something irresistible about it — to a certain kind of people — a kind of dare whispered by the universe. And yet, sometimes, I can't help but chase it.
I didn’t expect to face that question at five in the morning, stuck in that strange purgatory between sleep and waking. I’d been working too hard, running on too little rest, and my sense of time was starting to blur. That morning, as I tried to grab at least one hour of sleep, exhaustion pinned me down, but sleep never truly came. My body surrendered to stillness while my mind snapped alert, stranded between layers of consciousness. The harder I strained toward wakefulness, the deeper the paradox grew — I was neither asleep nor awake, but pinned in the liminal space where selfhood unravels. My limbs felt like stone. My thoughts circled around a blank space where “I” should have been. It was as if my mind was floating, completely detached from my body and everything familiar.
The world around me was dark and unreal, like a memory I wasn’t sure belonged to me. Time didn’t pass; it pulsed, skipping over some moments, leaving gaps in existence. And then, something inside me shifted.
It felt like I was being peeled — not physically, but in a deeper sense. One by one, the pieces of myself fell away — names, memories, preferences, fears. I wasn’t dreaming in the traditional sense; I was disintegrating. With every passing second, I lost another anchor to the person I had been the moment before. And then the terrifying thought arrived, fully formed and uninvited: If I can forget myself completely, does that mean that version of me is gone forever?
Let me try to explain. Every moment of consciousness felt like a new birth. But not the joyful kind. The kind that arrives with the awful realization that something had been there before — and it’s now gone. Dead. I existed in flashes, each one erasing the last. I couldn’t hold onto any sense of continuity. I existed in tiny, strobing seconds. Each second felt like a separate life, each one quietly replacing the one before it.
I didn’t feel like one person stuck in a weird, sleepless state. I became a series of people, lined up in single file, each one mourning the last — and then being mourned themselves.
And it wasn’t the first time I felt this way, not really. I remember being a child and looking into the mirror, asking, “What am I?” Not who — not in search of societal identity, or a role — but literally — as a genuine metaphysical question, what is this thing that is me?
I’d repeat the question, and at first it felt flat and meaningless. But sometimes, if I really focused, it was like the world stretched and gained an extra dimension, a hidden depth. I’d fall into it for a moment, and then it would slip away. I haven’t found my way back there since — at least not consciously. But that morning, it was like the trapdoor opened again, and I fell in, even deeper.
Perhaps the trigger had been a couple of days prior. I had seen a picture of myself — five years old, smiling in blue. I looked so sure of who I was. But I don’t remember that moment, or what made me smile, or why I liked blue. That version of me — did he die? That smile doesn’t live in me anymore. And I've probably gone through five color preferences. But I existed. I was real then, as myself.
This brings me to a classic thought experiment: the Ship of Theseus. Imagine a ship made of 1,000 wooden planks. Over time, every plank is replaced, one by one, until nothing original remains. Is it still the same ship? And if someone took all the old planks and built a second ship, which one is the real Ship of Theseus?
If every cell in your body regenerates, every belief shifts, and every heartbreak reconfigures you — are you still you? If I no longer laugh at the same things, dress the same, love the same, believe the same — is this still me? How many times do we die while still being alive?
Some say the ship that’s been maintained all along is the real one. Others say the ship rebuilt from the old parts is the real deal. Some think both are the Ship of Theseus, just not the same one. And some say every time a plank is swapped, a new ship is born — thousands of ships for thousands of moments.
I don’t know what consciousness really is. I don’t know if it’s one continuous thread or a series of moments independent of each other. I don’t know how many times I’ve changed so much that the old me is gone. But I do know this: I’ve changed my mind. I’ve loved, lost, learned, and grown. I've made mistakes, readjusted my dreams, and at times have been unable to recognize myself.
Maybe that’s what it means to live: to keep floating, even as the pieces change. To remain “me,” through all the different versions of myself. To die a thousand quiet deaths and still be here, asking the simple question:
Does the ship still float?
Yes. Somehow, still: yes.