I’ve recently found myself wondering, as many have before, how much, if any, of me is actually me? How much is just a jigsaw of other people’s thoughts, words and ideas? Am I just the thing that’s wondering about the puzzle, on the puzzle’s terms? How would I even recognise an idea that came to me of it’s own accord, that was not merely transposed from some book or film or passing conversation? Am I just a curator; an assembler of my own unique puzzle? Is it the act of assembling that creates me?
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