What am I?
A composition of atoms and molecules, cells and light, wrapped in a sack of skin and fuzz? Homo sapiens sapiens at its evolutionary peak before it finally shakes off the primal and the primate and plugs forever into the machine?
Who am I?
A soul shaped by exponential complexities influenced by her earliest mortal experiences? A conversion of energy? A figment of my own imagination?
Do these questions matter?
Would knowing change how my internal functions and external parts fit and move across the earth and through her air as she spins carefree around her beloved sun through a dark and frigid expanse?
What a simple and silly thing, this ego of mine, that keeps me rigid with fear when I seek fluidity. That wastes my time with identification and classification. That tries to cage and categorize and control when all I really want is to fly.
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