If I had no memory, would I still be Me? Even to describe myself as Me, I must resort to language. What language can exist in the absence of memory? So without language then, would I still be Me?
More than the blank finality of death, there’s something desolate about how much we are each just a random and hurried copy-paste job… that our idea of who we are is nothing more than a bunch of memories. We ARE simply what we didn’t forget.
