We have all done it from time to time, right? We have been guilty of looking back. In this age, however, is there time to look back?

We are what we were.

That statement seems obvious, but society encourages all to have no regret, look forward, soldier on and display a fierceness that is not only questionable, but disturbing. Why can’t we look back? Why can’t we take the time to examine who we are in the context of what brought us here?

The future is not a fact. It is a theory

There is no such thing as destiny or anything that had to have been. Rather, everything results from everything else, a progression of circumstances, events, ideas and feelings that eventually somehow led to now. Today did not have to be this way.

The value in looking back is directly proportional to the amount of time we question ourselves.

This is not a questioning that takes place on Facebook or in the tinny light of an overcrowded coffee bar. This is a questioning that takes place when no camera is rolling, no buttons are pressed and no evidence will ever exist that it took place except in the content of our character.

If we do not know who we were, how can we appreciate what we are?

Looking back is sad, often laconic, generally bittersweet. It is indeed a mixed bag of “stuff.” Easier to let that stuff stay in the corners of our selves, right? Why dredge up memories that may still hurt us today? Why look back?

If we look back far enough, we can see our future selves.

There is a tremendous sense of place that can arise when we dig into our past–for better or worse. Ultimately, we are slaves to our pasts unless we take the time to place it in its proper perspective. It is not an easy process nor is it necessarily going to yield anything tangible.

Are our lives random, isolated moments? Do they connect? Where are we going?

Look back and find yourself, all your selves. They are all within us, waiting, watching in space-time. Look back far and hard enough and you just may be the one looking back at yourself.

The song of ourselves may be faint, but the melody lingers on…

The Philosopher Files

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Robert Levey