I am an amalgamation of repeating recorded sensations oscillating as memories in non-linear fractals, simulating a continuous state of information processing. But enough on the so-called miracle of consciousness, it’s just a program that runs on the surface of reality. A very elaborate one that I have the misfortune of suffering through, but nothing more.

When we ask ourselves “who am I?”, we focus on the self as an object, with defined boundaries like qualia. But as we try to look inside of what this thing that we are supposed to be actually is, we discover that, to cage it within the boundary of a self, a being, we cut out critical pieces to force it to fit in our imperfect understanding. Piece by piece we shed away who we are to shove them into a short statement of “I am”.

Rather, whatever this “I” is, and I would hope all other Is in the world would be more aware of, is really just a quantum sum of motions - permuations of the disconnected source field. When we write our autobiographies, we suddenly unravel this am-ness into a whole dimension of space and time, a slightly better expression of the am-ness of the I. But we have to expose more and more granular detail to communicate this I, onward towards infinity.

Thus, there is always a part of who I “am” that the world will never see, besides myself, even myself. In this sense, I am always partially invisible. Informatically incomplete. The world, including myself, will only see my true face at the final moment.

This is all you really need to know about me.

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