I wonder why, among the thousands of events and moments from my childhood and teenage years, the worst memories remain the most vivid in my mind. They are highlighted so intensely that I can barely recall the sweet and pleasant memories, yet I remember the painful ones in the smallest detail, as if they happened yesterday. Could it be because I am currently depressed and anxious? How much can I trust my memory? The image I have of myself? Can I, just as I distance myself from objects and people, also distance myself from myself and reach a clearer image of who I am? When I try to describe myself, which words do I underline, and how does this highlighting shape the way I live?
Just as the meanings of life are relative, the values I assign to myself are also a kind of interpretation. I need to open the windows to fresh air and free my image and my voice from the cage of my judgments. So that joy and sorrow can find meaning. So that I can have a meaning greater than these petty everyday concerns and struggles. The truth of me rests in silence, beyond the version of myself that exhausts itself in the suffocating noise of voices. I will find my true self and underline it.
Image by chatgpt
