Am I merely an assemblage of memories and experiences or was there something in me at the beginning of my inception as a human being? How does one find one’s purest self, unclouded from the world of prejudices and judgments and tastes?
Throughout our human existence, the world entices us toward her opinions, religions, and ways of being. When we die, we shed all these artificial garments of self as snakes shed their skin or trees their foliage.
One might ask themselves when am I my most authentic self, and when am I pretending?
This leads me on to a related question: why do we like what we like? Why is my inclination towards folk and not rap? Why do I have a propensity for staying up till the wee hours of the morning? We attribute some of these elements of ourselves to genetics, our families, environment growing up, and what we were or weren’t exposed to. Sometimes we look to astrology or the belief in a past life to explain who we are and why our thoughts and minds shape into a particular form. Once all of these fixtures fall away, are you left with a skeleton of yourself? What truly makes you, you?
In my humble opinion, herein lies the greatest purpose of a singular human life: to create one’s destiny out of the rubbish of the old world’s stale opinions and breath, to breathe new life into the body marred by a parent’s love or lack therein; to sculpt into new form the mind out of the genetic material one arrived on this planet with; to confer with one’s heart and find it beating to one’s own drum; to pull the planets and stars down and give them new names.
The greatest achievement for the human being is to write their own creation myth and mold themselves into something utterly new, a force to be reckoned with.