
TheVanishingPoint
Student
- May 20, 2025
- 102
When someone shoots themselves in the head — or dies in any sudden, irreversible way — what really happens to what defined them?
I'm not talking about the body. That, we know: it decays, swells, decomposes, returns to the cycle of matter.
But the entire lived self — the unrepeatable collection of memories, emotions, images, traumas, first times, interrupted dreams...
everything that existed only in that mind — where does that go?
Can it truly vanish in an instant, like a candle snuffed out by wind?
Can the memory of a memory, of an embrace, disappear forever, leaving no trace, no witness?
Can the last thought ever formed dissolve into the void, with no one left to hear it?
Consciousness seems to want to imagine its own end, but that very act is already a neurological error:
you cannot imagine absence,
you cannot conceive of nothingness from within thought.
And yet death — real death — is precisely that: not being there to notice.
There is no "after".
There is no "witness to one's own annihilation".
So I ask:
Is everything we are truly written only in the fleeting moment we exist?
And if we disappear in silence, with no one to remember us,
is it as if we never existed at all?
Share your thoughts. Even a few words.
Maybe no one has the answer, but each of us bears a crack through which this question slips in.
I'm not talking about the body. That, we know: it decays, swells, decomposes, returns to the cycle of matter.
But the entire lived self — the unrepeatable collection of memories, emotions, images, traumas, first times, interrupted dreams...
everything that existed only in that mind — where does that go?
Can it truly vanish in an instant, like a candle snuffed out by wind?
Can the memory of a memory, of an embrace, disappear forever, leaving no trace, no witness?
Can the last thought ever formed dissolve into the void, with no one left to hear it?
Consciousness seems to want to imagine its own end, but that very act is already a neurological error:
you cannot imagine absence,
you cannot conceive of nothingness from within thought.
And yet death — real death — is precisely that: not being there to notice.
There is no "after".
There is no "witness to one's own annihilation".
So I ask:
Is everything we are truly written only in the fleeting moment we exist?
And if we disappear in silence, with no one to remember us,
is it as if we never existed at all?

Maybe no one has the answer, but each of us bears a crack through which this question slips in.