One cold and dreary Sunday afternoon in Scotland in 1740, David Hume trudged across a bleak and windy heath to his favorite public house. As he walked, he imagined the warmth of the fire he knew would be crackling on the hearth, the greeting of the blokes he knew would be sitting along the bar, and could almost taste the suds at the top of the creamy stout.
He arrived, greeted the blokes, took his first sip of stout by the aforementioned and predictable fire and thought, “ahhh, this is that authentic and meaningful, total 1740’s Scotish pub experience.”
But something bugged him. The taste of the stout, the pop of the logs, the laughter of the blokes… his suddenly realized his brain was running these sensations on separate tracks like some sort of pre-industrial ProTools session… but it was the chord they played inside him that convinced him they had any meaning.
And then it struck him… he was the chord they played. There was no David Hume sitting in that pub, there was only a bundle of sensations and experiences traveling simultaneously through the same noodle.
And so, faced with the sheer terror of having no self, he dutifully got shitfaced.