We value the past a lot. If you go out there and ask anyone what matters most, they’ll probably say love, family, friendship, success, and memories. People talk about the importance of remembering, holding on, and keeping photos and stories alive. But for me, the past has always felt hollow. The second something turns into “past,” it becomes myth — untouchable, unreliable, and, most of all, meaningless.
What’s the point of remembering that I stood first in second grade, or that I once had a beautiful friendship? It doesn’t exist anymore. I can’t see it, touch it, or change it. No, I can only talk about it — like an old legend that once happened somewhere to someone I barely recognize. To me, the past is like dust that has already settled. People try to breathe life into it, but no matter how hard they try, it remains still.
Even love and marriage — the things we’re taught to dream about — feel just as fragile when you think about it. You can have a husband who calls you “sweetheart” and “darling,” and then, one day, he might cheat, leave, or die. You can have a baby and dream of being the perfect parent, but who knows what that child will become? Every criminal was once somebody’s beloved child. And even if your children grow up successful, what if they stop loving you, visiting you? What did all those sacrifices mean, then?
We build lives around these fragile illusions.
We call them dreams, achievements, goals — but none of them last. You can be rich, have yachts and luxury cars, eat in expensive restaurants, and still not have the time or peace to enjoy any of it. I’ve seen people working 70 hours a week, running million-dollar companies, never resting or truly living. Even success turns into a cage when you can’t step outside of it.
And when it all falls apart, people turn to memories for comfort. But memories don’t heal; they haunt. When your present is painful, the good memories only make it worse. And when your present is bright, the bad ones still linger in the corners, whispering. Either way, the past gives you nothing but distortion — because memory itself lies. Five people can live through the same moment and remember five different versions of it. So what is memory, really, if not a collection of myths we choose to believe?
That’s why I’ve stopped clinging. I don’t chase nostalgia, scroll through old photos, or believe the past can give me anything I don’t already have right now. Instead, I live in the present — not because I’m detached or emotionless, but because I refuse to be imprisoned by something that no longer exists. The past can stay where it belongs: a myth told by the living to comfort themselves.
Some might say this is fear. I don’t think so.
It’s just clarity. I’m not saying don’t live, love, or travel. I’m saying: don’t be fooled into thinking any of it will last forever. Even monks, who renounce the world, still chase a goal — enlightenment, God, nirvana. Humans can’t live without something to run toward. Even a drifting life only feels meaningful against the backdrop of a materialistic world. Without attachment, detachment itself loses meaning.
In an ideal world, maybe we’d all wander the mountains, sleep by rivers, meditate under trees, and travel without fear or obligation. But that world doesn’t exist. Crime, economy, and human complexity exist.
So we live inside a paradox: we need goals, but all goals are temporary; we crave meaning, but we build meaning itself from contrasts — rich and poor, attached and detached, monk and merchant.
I’ve stopped expecting safety from any of it. I don’t cling to memories or believe success or family can shield me from loss. And I don’t even romanticize detachment. I simply try to live in the present, knowing that every path — even the “pure” ones — carries its own contradictions. There’s no safe acid to drink. But at least when you stop pretending one exists, you can taste life as it is, not as you were told it should be.
Photo by Vlada Karpovich on Pexels
