Once I was shocked to realize how every single piece of what I thinks of as my socionic “self” is something that’s been stuck on. Every significant experience, every belief, every identity, every story I tell myself, every agony, every desire, every fear, every hope — I saw, with blinding clarity, that all of it has clung to me, defined me, made itself into something heavy to carry through my travels. And that it all exists in the mind. Every scrap of it.
But what is a person without memory, belief, fear, longing? What is there if the mental filters of experience and hope are collected into a ball and discarded? Does a solid and continuous thing remain?
Precious alleged self.
I am ready.
Please type me.