I play a little guitar, write a few tunes, make a few movies

When George Harrison declared, “I play a little guitar, write a few tunes, make a few movies, but none of that’s really me. The real me is something else,” he spoke not as a musician, nor as a star, but as a seeker of truth. These words pierce beyond the veil of worldly accomplishments, pointing toward the eternal question that has haunted sages and kings alike: Who am I, truly, beyond the roles I play, beyond the works of my hands? In this statement lies not only humility, but the cry of the soul longing for recognition beyond the fleeting shadows of fame.

Harrison was no ordinary artist; as one of the Beatles, he stood on a stage larger than any the modern world had seen. To many, his guitar, his tunes, and his ventures in film would seem the very essence of identity, the summit of human achievement. Yet he reminds us that even these glories are but garments worn by the deeper self. The true essence, he suggests, is hidden, vast, and untouched by applause or condemnation. His words echo the teachings of the Upanishads, which speak of the Atman—the eternal self—greater than name, form, or deed.

Consider the story of Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, master of armies, ruler of nations. To the world, he was power itself. But in the solitude of his meditations, he confessed that these honors were dust and that his true self was not the purple robe nor the throne, but the soul striving to live in accordance with reason and virtue. So too with Harrison: he reminds us that the essence of man is not the crown nor the melody, but the inner being that witnesses all.

The meaning of Harrison’s words also holds a warning. Many wander through life chained to their titles: teacher, laborer, artist, parent, ruler. They forget that these are roles, not essence. When the title is taken, they feel lost, as if their being has vanished. But the wise know: identity does not rest in outward roles. A man may be stripped of wealth, fame, or even skill, and yet the real self remains, luminous and indestructible. To cling only to the outer self is to live in shadow; to seek the inner is to live in truth.

Harrison’s life itself bore witness to this search. Beyond his music, he turned to spiritual practice, studying Indian philosophy, chanting, and meditation. While the crowds worshipped the guitarist, he sought to worship the divine within. He tasted the sweetness of worldly success, yet confessed it was not enough. His words are not denial of his achievements, but a reminder that they are not the final answer to the riddle of existence. The applause fades, the body ages, the songs pass into memory—but the eternal self abides.

What lesson, then, should you draw? First, do not confuse what you do with who you are. Celebrate your gifts, but do not let them define your soul. Second, like Harrison, turn inward. Ask yourself: If all my works were stripped away, what remains? Third, seek practices—be they meditation, reflection, prayer, or silence—that connect you to that deeper self, so that when the outer world shifts, your inner ground remains unshaken.

Practical action flows from this wisdom. When praised, remember: this is for the role, not for the essence. When criticized, remember: the true self remains untouched. Give yourself to your craft, but do not become lost in it. Make space each day to touch the stillness beneath all activity. Live in the world, but do not mistake the world’s reflection for your true face.

Thus, let Harrison’s words echo across the generations: The real me is something else. Do not live and die only as the mask of roles and titles. Seek the eternal self, honor it, dwell in it. For when the instruments fall silent, when the curtain closes, when the body itself dissolves, only that deeper truth remains—and it is there that your freedom, your peace, and your immortality are found.