“The world exists in memory.” — Nisargadatta
Why does the World we experience appear to be consistent?
When I walk from one room to another, I am not confused by how I got there. This seems normal. But when I fall asleep at night and begin to dream, I likewise am not confused.
How do I know that the experience I am having right now is MY experience, and not someone else’s — not yours, perhaps?
The thoughts that buzz in my head — are they all mine, or have a few of someone else’s crept in? And if they did, how could I know?
My experience here, now, appears seamless. I sit in the kitchen, alone but for my sense of Self. There is quiet, but no silence — the moment is full, filled, whole. It can be viewed as a complete work of art. In the moment, there is a story of who I am and how I got here and It All Makes Sense.
It makes sense, it feels consistent. The scene changes; the sense of self remains; the consistency remains.
Is the consistency tied to the sense of self? Is memory?
Are “memories,” as we conceive of them, even real? We tend to think of a memory as an object, a copy of an experience — but what if they are actually the original experience from a different vantage?
There can be a sense of self without a belief in separation, but what happens when the sense of self goes? What happens to the sense of consistency, to the ideas that seem to glue together the story of Me and The World? Does it collapse?
And what remains?
I don’t have answers, but … intuitively, it feels that every moment contains within it the potential for radical, fundamental shifts in perspective.
