When I moved my sister’s boxes, I thought I could finally let go of the clutter she’d carried for too many years.
But inside each one was a piece of her— small things, big things, things I forgot, things she kept to remember the forgetting.
There were letters, from people long gone, clothes that fit no one anymore, even dreams wrapped in fraying paper, growing heavier with dust.
I thought I was freeing up space, but it turned out space was not the problem. It was the weight of holding on, a burden so light I never felt it until it was gone.
And now, here I am, in this new place, with her shelves still bare, feeling lighter but not empty, letting her go without asking her to stay.
Listen: Your brain is pulling a fast one on you. It’s a doozy of a prank, been running since the first spark of thought flickered in the primordial soup of your mind.
The joke goes like this: You think you’re the driver, but really, you’re just along for the ride.
And here’s the punchline: Consciousness is the realization — and rationalization — of whatver the subconscious has willed into being. It’s not the mastermind we think it is; it’s more like a smooth-talking spokesperson trying to explain decisions it never actually made.
Don’t take it personally. We’re all in the same rickety cart, careening down the hill of existence, thinking we’re steering when we’re just holding onto a toy wheel.
Act II: The Twist
Picture, if you will, a grand theater of the mind. The subconscious lurks backstage, a mischievous stagehand pulling levers, adjusting lights, moving scenery. It’s pandemonium back there, a circus of neural fireworks and chemical cascades.
But out front? That’s where consciousness takes its bow. It’s putting on a one-person show called “I Meant To Do That,” and it’s been running since the first human noticed their opposable thumbs.
Every choice you think you make? Already in the can. That donut you just decided to eat? Your subconscious put in the order eons ago.
Your consciousness is just the waiter, bringing it to the table with a flourish and saying, “Here’s what you ordered, sir.” And you buy it, hook, line, and sprinkles.
This isn’t to say consciousness is as useful as a tissue teapot. It’s the world’s best improv artist, spinning yarns to explain why you did what you did, why you want what you want.
“I chose the salad because I’m health-conscious,” it proclaims, while the subconscious giggles, knowing it was really because you saw a lettuce leaf that reminded you of that time you held a frog as a child to test the wart theory.
Act III: The Punchline
But here’s the real kicker: This system, as loony as it seems, works. Because while consciousness might not be calling the shots, it’s the one writing the story of your life.
And in a universe where we’re all just stardust playing dress-up, a good story is worth its weight in quantum fluctuations.
So what’s the moral of this cosmic comedy? Well, if we must find a point (and oh, how human of us to try), perhaps it’s this: Be kind to your consciousness.
When you do something and you don’t know why, when your thoughts surprise you, when you find yourself believing something you can’t quite explain, remember: You’re not losing your marbles. You’re just human. Your consciousness is doing its best to make sense of the three-ring circus that is your subconscious.
And if sometimes the explanations fall short, if sometimes you feel like you’re not quite in control? Well, welcome to the club. We meet every day, all day, whether we want to or not. The password is “free will.”
