I am not sure that I exist. I am sure of existence itself, but I… what is I?
I am all the steaks I have eaten.
I am all the coffees I have drunk.
I am all the books I have read.
I am all the friends I have made. And lost.
I am all the cities I have visited.
I am all the times I have turned left, when I could have turned right.
I am all the stories that I have been told. Stories about how to pick up a knife and fork, how to feel about my white skin, how to think about success.
But I… what the fuck is that?
All I know for sure, is that I am all the stories I tell myself.
~ Adapted from Jorge Luis Borges:
“I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities I have visited.”
~ If you find this line of inquiry interesting, or think that I’m deluded, I wrote about this in more detail, not too long ago.