An Overcoat.

It's not the first time it has been suggested; many religions and philosophies have done so. It seems to be accurate despite my believing myself to be very much real. I have a sense of identity, likes and dislikes, ideas and attitudes towards others and the world. I look in the mirror, probably fifty odd years from when I first did so, and I see this something or other staring back at me. Pale skin, freckles, red beard, hairless scalp–although that wasn't always the case. I'm pretty sure I exist, and there are things I make important. There are things I care about, that I'd die for without a moment's hesitation–my children's safety, for example.

And yet, at the same time, I know I am temporary, so what's the point? Well, it matters now. There will be a moment, though, sometime in the “future” I don't know when, that I will disappear and all that will be left will turn to dust. Not too long after that, everyone who remembered me will also be gone. Nobody will remember me. The trace of whatever I was and whatever any one of us was will be gone from the minds of all people. Eventually, all people will be gone and there will be no one to remember anyone. This should inspire us to great things, but it doesn't. Not really. Instead, we scramble for survival, hoard and protect ourselves from imaginary devils.

Maybe each one of us is everyone, and everyone is the same fundamental thing. Maybe all there is is experience individualised, and that's what we're all doing. The wind on my skin, the taste of chocolate, the love I give and receive, the hate too, murder, war, outrage, helping the nextdoor neighbour with something trivial, a conversation with someone on a bus, a bee sting, the death of a mother or a father or a child, having children, building a business, losing it all, gaining it all again, and all the emotion that is attached to that.

Maybe that's what we are, something ineffable, and all of this we think ourselves to be is just our imagination. Like an overcoat. Hang it up, put on another one.