On the eve of moving back home, I find myself thinking about the past and wondering what the past really is. The experiences that I remember are no more real to me than a dream. I know I was there, I know these things happened, and yet my ability to feel connected to them is nonexistent. They are apparitions, flimsy, fleeting, and they often make no more sense in their retelling than a dream does.
What is the past? How do we know something "really happened" if it only exists in one's memory? If memories are real, then why aren't dreams?
It is when I remember the past that I fully grasp that what I think of as real, what I experience as real, is only the present moment. It strikes me that life is like a sparkler, fading almost as soon as it bursts onto the scene.
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