When I look back over the things I’ve enjoyed in my life — the real moments, not the polished ones you stick in a holiday photo album — there’s a common thread running through all of them. I didn’t see it when I was younger. I certainly wasn’t thinking in terms of “self-referential thought” or anything like that. But the pattern was there, clear as day: almost everything I’ve ever found pleasurable has been a moment where I stopped thinking about myself.

It sounds simple, almost too simple, but when I look at the memories that actually stay with me — those warm days in Spain, afternoons playing football, the book I couldn’t put down, the evenings out where laughter comes easily — they all have the same feeling to them. It’s the moment where the constant internal chatter takes a break. Not a spiritual moment, not a deep philosophical awakening. Just a quiet mind, without me even trying.

I don’t mean anything grand when I say “forgetting myself.” I don’t mean losing my identity or having some mystical out-of-body experience. I mean something more everyday: that constant background commentary we all carry around loosens its grip. The part of the mind that’s always judging, comparing, planning, replaying — it just steps aside for a bit. And the relief that comes with that is what pleasure feels like for me.

Basketball is a perfect example. I’ve never once been dribbling down the court thinking about my failures in life. There’s no space for it. My attention is pulled out into the world — the movement, the timing, the sound of people shouting, the feeling of the ball at my hand. It’s pure involvement. For that hour, the part of me that thinks about “me” goes quiet.

And it’s the same with reading. When I’m caught up in a good book, the world inside my head gets traded for the world on the page. I stop hearing the usual commentary and start seeing the story. That shift — that gentle shutting down of the internal noise — is the reason reading has always felt like a refuge.

Even holidays follow the same pattern. People talk about “getting away from it all,” and for me that’s never been about running away from life. It’s about getting away from my own head for a bit. On a beach or wandering through a new place, I’m not thinking about my to-do list or replaying old conversations. The new environment demands attention. The mind quiets. Suddenly life feels lighter, and it has nothing to do with the location and everything to do with the silence inside.

It’s funny, because if you asked me years ago what pleasure was, I probably would have listed activities — football, friends, travel, books. But now, when I take a step back, it’s obvious the activities themselves are just the delivery system. What I’m really chasing isn’t the thing; it’s the feeling those things give me. And the feeling is always the same: a break from the inner narrator.

There are people who genuinely enjoy reflecting on their plans, their identity, their past and future. I don’t deny that, but for me personally, that’s never been a source of joy. I’ve never sat down to think about who I am for fun. I don’t get pleasure from imagining some ideal future version of myself. Those things have their place, but they’ve never lit me up. My pleasurable moments come from being fully absorbed in something — anything — that pulls me out of my own head.

What’s interesting is that this makes pleasure feel less mysterious. It’s not some magical emotion floating in the air. It’s a shift in attention. When the mind stops looping back to “me,” even simple things feel lighter. A coffee with someone becomes enjoyable not because of the drink but because I’m present. A walk on a decent day becomes restorative because I’m in it, not thinking about something else. Even a film can feel like a reset — two hours where my mind is pointed somewhere other than itself.

This also explains why some days don’t land the same way. I can be doing something I normally enjoy — say, meeting friends — but if my head is buzzing with commentary, replaying conversations or worrying about something, the experience doesn’t hit the same. It’s not the activity that changed; it’s how loudly the inner voice is running. When that commentary is active, it steals bandwidth from the world in front of me. When it’s quiet, pleasure slips in naturally.

What surprises me most is how universal this seems once you notice it. When people talk about their best memories, they don’t describe the thoughts in their head; they describe the world outside it. They talk about moments that pulled them in — the early morning light on the first day of a holiday, the roar of a crowd at a match, the feeling of being swept up in good conversation. The stories differ, but the structure is always the same: attention turned outward, inner noise turned down.

And once I saw that, something clicked. Pleasure isn’t about escaping life. It’s about escaping the endless commentary we mistake for life. The mind never stops producing it — that’s just human nature — but certain activities naturally help it quiet down. That quietness feels like freedom. It feels like joy. It feels like pleasure.

That’s why the best moments in my life have never been about “finding myself.” They’ve been about forgetting myself for a little while. The self comes roaring back soon enough — with all its thoughts, worries, and plans — but those small gaps, those pauses in the loop, those are the moments that genuinely feel good.

And maybe that’s all pleasure really is: the small, ordinary minutes where the mind lets go of its own noise, and we get to experience the world without the filter of ourselves.