My identity is not something uniform or stable; it’s a collection of small things, combined together, that go from “my condition as a human being” to “what I ate this morning”. Sometimes one of those bits of identity falls off, as if a ragged piece of cloth unsewed itself from the patchwork; sometimes a new bit pops up, as if filling a hole. But it’s always changing.
Patchwork of Theseus.
My identity is not something uniform or stable; it’s a collection of small things, combined together, that go from “my condition as a human being” to “what I ate this morning”. Sometimes one of those bits of identity falls off, as if a ragged piece of cloth unsewed itself from the patchwork; sometimes a new bit pops up, as if filling a hole. But it’s always changing.