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Are we defined by our memories? Is it that the past events that we remember shape ourselves? Are we the results of a chain of actions that have happened? Or is it rather that there is an intrinsic 'soul' or 'us' that exists that is unique to every person and that if two people were to have the same genetics and same life experiences, they would still be different people?
I do not know the answer to that. I cannot know the answer to that. The last three years have been a distortion of sorts, which has destroyed any path to finding an answer. A small and limited being like me, a speck on the face of the Earth, an infinitesimally small existence under the Heavens, is incapable of seeing the answer which so lies beyond my reach.
The cause of all this is my memories in America. I do not know for certain if they are even mine's. Certainly, in those memories, everything is logically composed to seem like mines. But as I recall that question of what makes the self, I can feel at this very moment that my emotions don't feel very connected with them.
If those memories aren't mines, how do I make them feel to be mines so at least I'm not constantly disturbed by this feeling?
If some dark undercurrent under me is making fake memories and putting them into me, does it mean that it seeks me to give birth to her?
Why is there such a dissonance in my heart?
It started:
[] Back at home, when Mama got her assignment.
[] At JFK Airport.
[] Under the full moon.