If you write something on a blank wall, and then paint over it, the writing will still remain somewhere underneath. Would you say we are painting over our old selfs as each year passes? On each birthday we get a new layer of paint, covering up our past self. They always remain as memories still somewhere under all the newer layers. Whenever these memories surface, it’s mostly in dreams. When we sleep, all these layers haunt our heads, good and bad. What if currently we are not actually real. We are just a thought in someone’s mind, or a dream they are seeing. When we finally die, they wake up. But what would be the point of that? Or really, what is the point of life? We live just to find the answers to these questions. By the time we find out, our time has expired. But where do our souls go? That is the only question that can never be answered here on Earth.