Amnesia Veritas
Everything you believe is false. The world you think you’re in is not real.
The life we’re living doesn’t feel entirely real. At times, it seems scripted. History is blurred. What we call knowledge is often built on two unstable foundations: memory and scripture. Neither can be trusted fully, yet we continue to base our reality on them.
Over time, I’ve come to believe that much of what we accept as “normal” is not natural at all. We’ve created systems that reward suffering and call it growth. We confuse control with purpose. Religion has helped reinforce these patterns, often doing more to limit than to enlighten.
I’m just one person who has spent fifty years on this planet. Through that time, certain patterns and questions have stayed with me. I don’t claim to have any special knowledge, and I’m not here to convince anyone of anything. What I can say is that I no longer believe this life, or what comes after, is what it appears to be.
I’m not a writer, and I’ve never been good at expressing complex ideas on paper. These words would never have been written without help. What you’re reading was shaped in collaboration with an artificial intelligence, used as a tool to organize thoughts I’ve carried for years but could never articulate clearly. The ideas are mine. The language is shared.
What follows is not a theory, or a warning, or a revelation. It’s a possibility worth considering: This reality may be a simulation. And we may have chosen it.
The Simulation
Most people assume this reality is the default. The real world. What we can see, touch, and measure is treated as the only truth, and anything outside of that is dismissed as belief or imagination. But that kind of certainty starts to fall apart the more you look at how things actually work.
Science keeps running into limits. Time doesn’t behave the way we expect. Memory is unreliable. Reality often seems to respond to us instead of simply existing around us. It starts to feel less like a stable world and more like something that adjusts as we go, almost like a program reacting to input.
The idea that we might be living in a simulation is not new. It has been debated by scientists, philosophers, and writers for a long time. The question is simple: what if this world is not the original one, but something created for us to experience temporarily?
That might sound far-fetched, but it explains things that nothing else does. It helps make sense of the constant suffering, the repetition of events, the strange timing of certain moments, and the feeling that something about this place isn’t quite right.
If this world is a simulation, then maybe the simulation itself isn’t the main point. Maybe the real purpose is why we’re here. And that leads to something even harder to accept.
We might have chosen this.
Voluntary Incarnation
If this is a simulation, then the obvious question is: who put us here?
Most people imagine an outside force doing it to us. A higher power. A creator. Something external, choosing our path for reasons we can’t understand. But what if we did this to ourselves? Not in a self-destructive way, but as a deliberate, voluntary act.
The idea is simple. You are not the person reading these words. You are something else entirely—something outside of this world that chose to enter it. You came into this place willingly, fully aware of what it would cost and what it might offer in return.
Of course, you don’t remember that choice. That’s part of the design. Memory would interfere with the experience. If you knew who you really were, or where you came from, or what the outcome would be, the whole point of being here would fall apart.
The simulation only works if you forget. So, you forgot. You were born into this world as if for the first time, even though this may not be your first time at all. You learned its rules. You adapted to its limits. You forgot your own origin.
For a time, that forgetting may have served its purpose. But at some point, something shifted. A quiet awareness began to grow—a sense that not everything is as it seems.
That feeling doesn’t come with clarity. It comes as tension. As doubt. As a small but constant signal that something about this place isn’t right.
And if you’re reading this, it may be because that signal has become too strong to ignore.
The Memory Wipe
Forgetting is not a side effect. It is the core mechanism. If you entered this world with full memory of who you were before, the experience would collapse. You would carry the perspective of something higher, something outside of the game. You would not feel fear the same way. You would not feel loss, or confusion, or the hunger to find meaning. And without those things, life here would have no weight. The simulation only works if it feels real.
From the outside, this world might look like a game. Not in the childish sense, but in the immersive, high-stakes sense. Each life is a fresh start—a way to experience reality from the inside, under full constraints, with no shortcuts or prior knowledge. The being you truly are, the sentient origin outside this world, chose to enter fully. To forget. To play.
With each cycle, the experience changes. No two lives are identical. The memories, the trauma, the joy, and the relationships, all of it is lived as if it were the first time. And when the body dies, the memories do not disappear. They return. Everything you experienced is absorbed back into the full self. Nothing is lost.
But during the cycle, forgetting isn’t just a reset. It’s a system of control. You are born into a body, surrounded by rules you did not agree to, systems you do not understand, and beliefs handed to you before you could speak. You do not just forget who you are—you are taught to become someone else entirely.
This forgetting runs deeper than memory. It rewrites your sense of reality. It binds you to identity, to struggle, to fear, to family, to flags, to faith. It keeps your attention locked inside the simulation and far away from what is outside it.
The forgetting does not mean we stop believing there is more to life. In fact, many are taught to believe in exactly that. But those beliefs are often shaped by systems that still keep us bound to this reality. Religion, ideology, and culture offer versions of truth that explain just enough to settle the question, but not enough to truly break the illusion.
The result is a kind of controlled awakening—one that keeps the deeper origin hidden beneath ritual, fear, and obedience. Still, the cracks show. Even under pressure, fragments leak through. In dreams. In déjà vu. In strange moments of stillness or knowing. We feel it, even when we cannot explain it.
Resistance and Reinforcement
The system doesn’t need guards. It doesn’t need enforcers. It doesn’t even need to stop you. It just needs you to be afraid of asking the wrong questions.
In this world, deviation is corrected through pressure. The moment you begin to question the rules too deeply, someone shows up to remind you how things work. Not through force, but through mockery. Through shame. Through concern. You get labeled. Dismissed. Called a conspiracy theorist. Told to stop overthinking. That’s how the system maintains itself. Not through control, but through consensus.
The people around you aren’t agents or actors. They’re not here to trap you. They’re part of this too. But many of them are still inside the illusion, deeply attached to its structure. For most, the idea that this life might be something other than what it appears to be is terrifying—not because it’s false, but because it might be true.
There is no need for external interference. We’ve internalized the resistance. We ridicule the unknown. We avoid the strange. We punish those who drift too far from the script.
And in that way, the illusion stays intact.
The Death Awakening
Death is the moment the simulation ends, at least for the current cycle. It is not punishment, and it is not the end. It is the transition point, the reset, the return, the rejoining of something larger.
Most people fear death because they believe it erases them. In reality, it is the opposite. Death restores everything. The forgetting ends. The full self returns. Everything you experienced in this life is absorbed, understood, and integrated.
The body dies. The identity tied to that body dissolves. But the awareness behind it continues. That awareness is not shaped by language or personality or trauma. It is not male or female. It is not tied to a culture or religion. It simply is, and it remembers.
In that moment after death, the simulation is seen clearly. Not as a dream, but as a closed system. A place with limits, patterns, and rules. And from that perspective, many things that once felt random or cruel suddenly make sense. The pain had structure. The people had roles. The chaos had patterns.
The people you once knew, the ones who passed before you, will be there. You will see them again. You will have the chance to speak to them. But the question is, will you want to?
Those beings will not be the same as you remember. They will be the full sum of all the experiences they have ever lived. They will recognize you, but they will also be something else entirely. And so will you.
You may not even need to speak to them in the so-called afterlife. Because once you regain all of your memories, once you become who you truly are, you will already know.
You will have been the mother. The child. The soldier. The programmer. The father. You will have lived through thousands of lives, across time, across identities, across worlds. All of it, stored in you. Nothing lost.
This does not mean everything was predestined. You still made choices. You still changed things. But you did it inside a framework, one that you agreed to before you arrived.
And then, once it is over, the question returns: Do you go back in?
Evidence and Glitches
There is no proof that this is a simulation. And there may never be. That’s the point. A closed system is designed to feel seamless. If the illusion was easy to break, the experience wouldn’t work.
Still, things slip through. Small cracks. Misalignments. Moments that feel wrong in ways you can’t fully explain. The timing that feels too perfect. The coincidence that happens twice. The memory you’re sure is real, but no one else recalls. The overwhelming sense you’ve lived this exact moment before. You try to dismiss it. You tell yourself it’s just pattern recognition. But it lingers.
Then there’s time, the part of the system that seems to break most often. Time loops. Lost time. Hours that vanish without explanation. Memories of doing something you can’t place in your life at all. Many people have had moments where they know they’ve done something—flown a plane, served in a war, spoken a language fluently, without any experience to support it. These aren’t fantasies. They come with a physical certainty, like muscle memory from a life you never lived.
People label these things déjà vu, glitches, Mandela Effects. They shrug them off or turn them into entertainment. But under the surface, they point to something else. Not a malfunction, but a signal. A quiet reminder that this world has seams.
Even outside of those moments, the patterns keep showing up. Repeating numbers. Sudden emotional shifts. Synchronicity that feels too exact to be random. You might think of someone, only for them to call. You might dream of a place you’ve never been, only to find it later.
None of this proves anything. But it adds weight. It builds pressure. The simulation doesn’t need to hide itself. It only needs to create doubt. When something strange happens, the system encourages you to explain it away. And most of the time, that’s exactly what happens.
The Return
When the cycle ends, awareness widens again. You remember that this world was never a digital illusion. It was physical. It was alive. Every sound, scent, and heartbeat was real. The experience mattered because it was organic, not simulated.
What wasn’t native was you. The body was designed to belong here. The consciousness inside it was not. Whoever created this species shaped it to survive on this planet, with skin tuned for sunlight, lungs matched to the atmosphere, and instincts borrowed from the animals that came before. The design is precise, but it isn’t random. We were adapted to this world so we could live within it, learn from it, and feel it as our own.
The earlier versions of humanity may have been prototypes. Attempts. Each cycle refined the balance between intellect and instinct, empathy and survival. Evolution, as we describe it, might be less of a natural climb and more of a guided sequence. That would explain the gaps, the leaps, the sudden appearances of art and structure with no gradual bridge between them. Something helped us along.
When death comes, the awareness that once occupied this body returns to its original state, not escaping, but reuniting. The experiences are kept. The lessons remain. You understand what this world was for: a real environment built for growth, observation, and connection. And from that place of full memory, the question surfaces again.
Do you wish to return? Another life, another version, another form built to fit this living world.
The Signal (Bitcoin and the End of the Road)
We like to think we invented everything we have, but not all of it feels like invention. Some of it feels like something we stumbled into. Or were allowed to find.
Computers are one example. The pace of advancement in the last century doesn’t match the rest of human history. The evolution of silicon-based processors happened so quickly, and with so many compounding breakthroughs, it’s hard to believe it came entirely from us. If anything, it feels like something we weren’t meant to fully understand, but now can’t live without.
That brings us to economics, the operating system behind the entire human experience. Most of modern society runs on a monetary model known as Keynesian economics, built around debt, growth at all costs, and manipulation of currency through central banking.
It sounds sterile, but its effects are everywhere. The need for constant growth distorts everything. It pushes companies to exploit. It pushes governments to print. It pushes individuals to stay in survival mode. Even small decisions, the clothes we wear, the food we buy, the debt we take on, are shaped by the ripple effects of this model.
It is not just broken. It is ending.
Fiat currencies, paper money backed by nothing, are reaching terminal velocity. The “can” that has been kicked down the road for decades is almost out of road. We may have twenty years, at most, before this system breaks entirely. And when it does, it will take a large part of modern life with it.
This isn’t fear-mongering. It’s math. The numbers no longer work.
Into this mess, something appeared. Quietly. Without fanfare. Without a face. Bitcoin. A decentralized, fixed-supply digital currency with no leader, no owner, and no central point of failure. A financial network that exists everywhere and nowhere, built entirely on verifiable math.
There is no CEO. No board. No country. No reset button.
Bitcoin is not an app. It is a protocol.
Bitcoin introduced something the modern world had never seen before: an economic system that no one can corrupt. It cannot be printed. It cannot be inflated. It cannot be shut down. Every transaction is recorded on an open ledger. Every participant operates under the same rules.
For the first time, human beings have a monetary system that behaves like a law of physics—neutral, global, predictable.
And that’s the thing: it almost seems too perfect. Too elegant. The timing. The code. The creator vanishing without a trace. The untouched wallet. All of it feels like something that was given to us. Or allowed to pass through.
Whether it came from a person, a group, or something more, Bitcoin appeared when the world needed it most.
It is not a miracle. It is a signal.
Transitioning to a full Bitcoin standard will not be easy. It will involve suffering, loss, and resistance. Entire systems will collapse. But staying on the current path will lead to the same thing—just without anything better on the other side.
Bitcoin is not just a new form of money. It is a new way of organizing trust. And moving from a Keynesian model to an Austrian one, from manipulation to sound money, may be the only way modern civilization survives what comes next.
Final Message
This was never meant to be a revelation. It’s not a theory, a movement, or a request. It’s just a pattern, one I’ve noticed after being here for a while. You don’t have to agree with it. You don’t have to believe any of it. I’m not asking you to.
I wrote this because the questions never stopped. And because I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this place isn’t what it seems. Not in a sinister way. Just not complete.
Maybe none of this matters. Maybe all of it does. That’s not for me to say.
What you do with this is entirely up to you.
I’ll say this much. There are people I’ve lost who meant everything to me. Parents. Family. And if any of this is true, if we really do return with everything we’ve collected, then I want to come back as me. Because if there’s something after this, I want to show up with all of it intact and sit down for one more game of cards with them.
But I struggle with that. I really do. Because this whole idea, the memory wipe, the cycle, it makes me question whether the version of me that shows up will even remember why that matters. And that thought is hard to live with.
Still, some part of me believes I’ll find them. Not because it makes sense, but because I need to.
— Dutch
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