There’ve been times where I’ve wondered: What am I?
Does identity require bodily continuity? Without physical form, would I simply cease? Or is there fundamental “self”-ness that exists beyond form, independent of body, that exists past passing.
I never called it soul, or spirit, since I wasn’t even sure it existed. But I did, in odd reflective moments, wonder.
Now, floating high above the accident, staring down at the twisted remains of the car that contains my own twisted remains, I’m no closer to an answer. If I had a voice, I’d laugh.
Because I no longer feel like me…