Am I nothing more than the sense of for-me-ness, which isn't really a sense, as such, but more of a given in that there is something having experience even if not actually holding in consciousness anything other than the experience?
Am I everything that impacts on this consciousness - the history of matter and my history and the air and the food I eat and the sights I see and the multifarious influences that the butterfly's wings have on my being?
Am I only instantiated in the moments that I am aware of being me? Whatever me may be.
Am I the fluctuating but stitched somehow together tapestry of my interests and habits, desires and beliefs, fears and memories, hopes and aspirations, likes and dislikes?
Am I this corporeal form - despite the cells dying and replaced, the atoms and molecules changing and changed?
Am I all of these or just an illusion?
Is 'I' just that which I call I and nothing else? Could I call my cat I and be my cat?
Self is a problem... I go with option one, though, and for the rest, maybe that's identity and as for that.... I guess it's what others define me as when they think of me... I am created by others and eternally recreating myself and yet just this vantage point on the wide world that is, also, I.
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