I’ve been obsessed with the phenomenon of human consciousness and identity ever since I can remember.
It’s no wonder that some of my favorite movie and TV moments revolve around these themes.
*Spoiler alert for anyone who hasn’t watched the Westworld series and plans to. Stop reading here.*
Like this scene where Anthony Hopkins plays Dr. Robert Ford, who is speaking with Bernard, a host who has just realized he is, in fact, a robot.
Ford says:
“The self is a kind of fiction for hosts and humans alike. It’s a story we tell ourselves. And every story needs a beginning. Pain only exists in the mind. It’s always imagined. So, what’s the difference between my pain and yours? Between you and me?”
When I heard this back in 2016, it gave me goosebumps.
I felt the truth of it, how the stories that make up my identity are the same as the ones created for the characters in Westworld, just as fictional.
And yet, like the robot character, my experience of suffering feels real.
I just keep coming back to this. How I wear my identity like a costume and recreate Stephanie more or less the same every day without noticing. While actually, that self doesn’t exist.
My self is as malleable and as easily shed as a suit of clothes.
I’ve always known on some level that wasn’t the real me. It just couldn’t be.
It’s a story. Useful, certainly, because stories help us navigate the world. The story of me can also be beautiful.
But what’s underneath the cloak of fiction we call the self?
One of my beloved mentors, Mavis Karn, has her own answer:
“There isn’t anything more powerful anywhere ever than love. I mean that intelligent, flawless source of all life, including us. We’re made of that. I’m calling it love.” – Mavis Karn
Not a bad thing to find underneath the costume, eh?
Yours in love and play,
Steph 🐲❤️
