The Last Thursdayism Theory

Only naïve people take life lightly

There is a thought experiment at the crossroads of physics and philosophy, based on the Omphalos theory, that I am particularly fond of, although many people consider it absurd.

Here it is. Imagine that the universe was created last Thursday, exactly as we see it now, complete with history, artefacts, and photographs. Every memory we carry, like in a computer game, was coded by the Chief Programmer. You wake up on Thursday morning with a sense of memory, but it is only software.

The Last Thursday Theory is subversive because it cannot be disproven. Every piece of evidence only confirms it.

What would your world look like if you learned that everything you remember is a fantasy of the Chief Programmer? Not only the painful parts, but the most beautiful moments too. Those are harder to give up, I know. Still.

I would rather doubt the reality of beautiful memories than carry the certainty that what was painful truly happened. I would rather start with a clean slate. Wake up on a Thursday feeling that my life has just begun. Knowing that the shape of the day is up to me. Stand face to face with someone who disappointed me and think: these are false memories. The Chief Programmer wanted us to fall out.

I once told my friends about the Last Thursday Theory. Not everyone liked it. I was told it was naïve escapism and a trivialisation of reality. I agree. So what?

In everyday language, “naïve” is hardly a compliment. It means gullibility and childlike trust. Children trust everyone. They do not yet have the kind of experience that functions like a Spotify algorithm. Yes, history tends to repeat itself, though it does not have to. But if one leans on this theory, what difference does it make? By Thursday, everything resets anyway.

We are in the holiday season now, which I personally enjoy, though I know that for many it is the worst time of the year. Family gatherings have become a litmus test of social status and a barometer of relationships. Endless media images of happy families in matching pyjamas, sitting cross-legged between a fireplace and a spruce tree hacked down with an axe, festive food advertisements, and photographs of gift piles resembling autumn mountain ranges can push even the healthiest person into despair and self-doubt.

Will I ruin my parents’ Christmas if I go skiing instead? Can I survive two Christmas Eve dinners, one with my parents and one with my in-laws? Is my child spending the holidays with someone else because they do not love me? How many gifts does love require?

By mid-November, people begin to show symptoms of acute pre-holiday stress. Those who are alone would rather disappear than decline invitations extended out of pity, or to heighten someone else’s ego-driven contrast, to a Christmas table. Couples argue about timing and destinations.

As if that were not enough, social media fills with advice on how to sum up the old year and plan the new one, usually accompanied by a note that we will not stick to it anyway. A sense of last year’s bankruptcy and next year’s anticipated failure. Pressure.

It is December 21 as I write this. I still do not have a Christmas tree. In my family home, my father and I used to decorate it on Christmas Eve morning while my mother made dumplings. Later, my father killed the carp and usually ate it himself. Compassion stuck in my throat along with the bones. There were four presents under the tree, one for each of us. We watched television together. In the 1980s, it was the main form of home entertainment. On Christmas Day, everyone ate what they wanted, when they wanted, and did whatever they pleased.

Sometimes we gathered in one room to watch something together. Sometimes my parents took naps behind closed doors, or so I naïvely believed. There was calm. Ease. No alcohol. No relatives travelling hundreds of miles. No obligatory visits to people we did not like.

Maybe that is why I like the holidays. The freedom of closeness without fusion. Without coercion. Without having to prove that we were a happy family. Were we? Sometimes.

On New Year’s Eve, my parents left my older sister and me alone and went out with friends. We had Pepsi, oranges, and the television. I loved New Year’s Eve.

This year, Christmas and New Year’s Day fall on a Thursday. Perfect. I do not know about you, but I will wake up in a reality that smells new and think: time to see this world. I will look at my children as if for the first time. I will scrape the hardened butter off a cold dumpling and eat it with curiosity, tasting mushrooms mixed with sauerkraut. I will walk to the park and see the trees for the first time. I will marvel.

Maybe someone will call or send a message. I will think: this person might be worth knowing. The Chief Programmer assigned us a story, but also gave us a choice about whether each step continues the script. I will pay attention to how I feel in this person’s presence, whether it is light or weighed down by a vague sense that I must change myself to be enough. If it is the latter, I will turn on my heel.

“What was and is no longer is not written into the ledger,” my grandmother used to say. She did not know the Last Thursday Theory. She did not dwell. She lived by the day and by nature.

For years, I kept detailed records of harms and transgressions. It made it hard to see the world without a filter. Eventually, I waved off what was and is no longer, and life became simpler. I remember, but I know the past cannot be changed. Besides, does the present really need it?

On New Year’s Eve, I do not make resolutions. Instead, I think about what I still want to experience in this renewable world. I write it down, burn the paper, and drop the ashes into a glass, which I fill with non-alcoholic Kylie prosecco when midnight strikes. I drink it. The next day, I do not remember what I wrote. Verifying whether dreams come true would be an unnecessary balance sheet. I do not think the Chief Programmer is an accountant. He is more like a creative child who occasionally makes coding errors.

What I do know is how I feel in my world each day. If it is bad, I ask what I can change. If it is good, I send a mental kiss to the Chief Programmer. You designed me well. Thanks.

Whether the universe resets every Thursday or simply continues, all we really have is today, the people who are here now, and whatever is close at hand.

I choose a life without filters of past events, like when I was a child and the world was a place of wonder.