CHAPTER 1. MEMORY AS A MIRAGE.
We are taught to believe memory is a vault, but it is only smoke.
Every time we open it, the shapes change.
A face becomes softer, a voice grows thinner,
a place bends into a dream it never was.
We pretend we are preserving truth,
but memory is not truth.
It is a painter with trembling hands,
covering cracks with new colors.
The more we remember, the less we know.
The more we repeat, the less remains.
Until all is blurred —
a song without notes,
a photograph without light,
a monument without name.
CHAPTER 2. THE SELF IS BUT A MASK WOVEN FROM LANGUAGE.
We think there is a self, but the self is only a story told too many times. We build it with words, with mirrors, with the trembling reflections in other eyes. But remove the words, remove the mirrors, and the self vanishes, like fog at dawn. We are not names. We are not memories. We are not the shadows we chase. We are a flicker in the endless present, an echo that belongs to no one. And the echo, too, will fade.
