What makes us who we are?
Is it the soul? That invisible tether, the so-called essence of existence?
Or is it the body—the fragile vessel of flesh, bone, and blood that carries us from moment to moment?
Or perhaps it's the collection of quirks, habits, reflexes, the so-called characteristics people point to when they say, "That is you"?
But what shapes those characteristics?
What bends the soul into something that looks like "identity"?
Is it consciousness?
And if it is—then what is consciousness, truly?
How do you know you are conscious? Because you think? Because you feel? Because the thoughts rattling inside your head insist that they are yours? But if consciousness is shaped by experience, then the question shifts: what is the measure of experience?
There's a theory—one Damien had read, half-remembered, tucked somewhere in the corners of his old life. A theory about time and perception.
