What’s so sexy about the past that we can’t stop thinking about it, constantly referencing it?
Like a crime that is not solved, it keeps us in a state of obsession, pushing us to make sense of things by shaping a narrative — one that can only ever be formed retrospectively.
And then we call that narrative our identity.
We believe in meaning.
But only afterwards.
We assemble fragments and call it coherence.
We connect dots and call it necessity.
We narrate, therefore we are.
Who are we without these stories?
Probably inconsistent.
Possibly contradictory.
Definitely unfinished.
Maybe free.
In any case, I would recommend not taking it too seriously.