Hi, my name is Savannah. Um, [Music] I've taken every personality test known to man, and the results are in: I'm

insufferable. No, in an effort to finally get all you Myers-Briggs weirdos to shush, I'd like to officially

announce I am an INFP, sometimes an INTJ. Not really sure what's going on there. The Big Five personality test says

I am 98% open, which means I'm down for anything, but I'm also 75% neurotic, which

means the thing I did that I said I was down for is going to haunt me forever, and I'm not going to talk about it with anyone.

Three-wing four...don't really have a little comment for that. The fictional character I most like, apparently, is

Audrey goddamn Hepburn! Hell yeah! Oh, I also got 72% Hannibal Lecter. Don't

know what that means. Apparently, 48% difficult to get along with, based almost solely on a completely nuclear amount of

suspicion. The stars have finally written me back, and it turns out I'm a Cancer, sun; Moon Aquarius rising. I can

type 122 words per minute. That's not really the same kind of information as the rest of this; I just wanted to brag.

So, given this information, do you feel like you know me better? Do you feel like you have a more complete picture of me

as a person? Do you feel—dare I ask—closer?  Assuming you said yes, I maintain a healthy skepticism about personality

tests in general. I.e., I think they're mostly [ __ ] but, in fairness, identity is complicated, and so is the world,

growing ever more increasingly so. Maybe these tests offer a tantalizingly succinct way to boil down your entire

personhood into an ultra-analyzable and shareable little nugget, so you can find more people who are like you because

Well, it's lonely out here for a bit, but today we're digging deeper than that: Who are we? Why are we? Who we are?

Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there? Hello, hello! My name is Professor Sav, and welcome to Philosophy 101. Put your hand

down. I'm talking... I um... I ran out of paint. If you already know what the Ship of Theseus is, you're about

to roll your eyes back into your skull. But if you don't, you're about to have your mind blown. Just imagine a ship in a

harbor that needs preserving. It's called the Ship of Theseus. Why? Don't worry about it. For simplicity's sake, let's

imagine that every year, for upkeep, one plank of the ship needs to be replaced. And let's say there's a hundred planks. I

don't know anything about boats! If there are a hundred planks and one is replaced every year, in 100 years none of the

original parts of the ship will be left. So, once all the planks are replaced, can we still call it the Ship of Theseus?

What about when only half the planks are original? What about the moment the first plank is removed? When does it stop being

what it once was? Or is a thing more than its individual components? Is a thing more the idea of itself rather than what

it's made from, or the story of itself? Does it rely on some unseeable sense of continuity? It gives me goosebumps to

think about, man, because I just don't know. Obviously, this little logic puzzle isn't speaking strictly about maritime

endeavors. It's a thought experiment used to talk about personal identity and the self. Is it a perpetually changing and maybe

unstable thing, subject to the whims of the physical and temporal world? It acknowledges identity

as something that is constantly being reshaped and reinvented and amended, physically. Because of that cute little...

People like to say your cells cycle through themselves every seven years, but also mentally, emotionally, and contextually, I see baby

pictures of myself—ugly, ugly baby pictures of myself—and know that as myself logically, but feel no

recognition beyond that. Also separate, but somewhat related, I hold the long-standing belief that it is incredibly embarrassing to have been a

baby. I don't really like people in my life who knew me when I was a baby.

I could not be held responsible for the things that [ __ ] did. Also, am I allowed

to call a baby a [ __ ]?  With me, obviously that's an extreme example of the baby

thing, but the question is: are you even the same you that you were yesterday? Or when I started this sentence? If you are

the same person you were 30 seconds ago, then is there some unseen, unknowable thing that makes you not the same person

at some point? Maybe the self is something instantaneous, and by the time it's observed, it's already gone, like a moment

in a photograph—or more accurately, still in a flipbook. Or is it something not so fragile? I'm inclined to

believe that a changing you remains you. But if so, what is the adhesive of you? What's the wicker binding you

together—the body, the brain? Am I just a collection of traits? And what am I even saying when I say that I don't

know who I am? I kind of know what I like. I know what tastes good. I know what my

favorite movies are. I know what I'm afraid of. I know what turns me on. I know how many words I can type per minute—it's

122. But again, like taking a personality test, these are all just things. I haven't even talked about biological factors and

how a non-negligible portion of your personality is entirely dependent upon whatever combination of hormones is

currently raging its way through your body. I'm interested in the self as not just a collection of stuff, but in itself

something nameable, something that exists regardless of what it interacts with. And because I struggled with socializing as

a teenager, and I'm now cursed to be obsessed with anything and everything to do with it for the rest of my life,

there's another element to this, which is I do wonder if all the power and this identity conundrum lies with everyone

except for you. So you can't see yourself. I don't even mean in a deep way; I mean you

literally cannot. You can see yourself in pictures, which, as we all know, were invented to make otherwise normal and

innocent people look completely insane. You can see yourself in videos, but that's flat, and you can see yourself in

the mirror, but that's still flat and inverted. The fact that it's harrowing to many, based on the TikTok populace's

fascination with flipping their faces horizontally, is that there is no true experience of yourself in three dimensions. You

can't occupy a room with yourself. And there are some things that you just notice about others that you could never

know about yourself; some idiosyncrasy of body language, or there are things that are unknowable to you

about you, only experienced by others. So we consider that alongside the very real phenomenon that a large part of identity

is social and performative and context-driven. It's because of these things that I wonder if the most honest essay of

ourselves could only be written by someone else, someone close to us. How actually, maybe the most authentic representation of who we are lies in

someone else's ability and willingness to perceive us. I've occasionally come across an image of myself that I consider

completely antithetical to the image I have of myself in my head. But does it then matter who I am in my head

if it doesn't match? When the whole point of life is to interface with the world via my avatar, I'm also interested

in the idea of self as it relates to memory. Simply, you can put together at least a vague definition of self via the

things you remember. But more and more we discover how flimsy memory is and how hackable it is. It's really easy to make

things up, or forget, or amend what's happened to you, which isn't ideal when that's what you're basing most of your

supposed personhood on. So again, enter others; specifically, enter nostalgia and why everyone is so obsessed with it. It's

mass communal identity validation. It's a bunch of people pulling things out and going, "Is this you?" And then you

go, "Oh, it's me." "Is this you?" And then, yeah, yes. We were there, feeling that. The past isn't lost because here it is between us,

and here we are amongst them. No, I'm not crazy. This was my life and that was how

it felt. I, although cynical, am sympathetic to this. That all being said, I don't actually love the memory theory

of personal identity. I don't love the idea that identity is made up of things that have happened to you, rather than

who you are. It feels really unforgivingly external to me. Not that forgiveness has anything to do with

truth. God [ __ ] me. You want some nature over nurture? I'd like to think that

there's something else. I don't want to say 'soul,' I don't like saying 'soul,' but I will. Whenever I think about souls, I

Think of the first live-action Scooby-Doo, where they pull everyone out of the little soul soup, you know?

What I'm talking about, you know what I'm talking about? You [ __ ] love Scooby.

When I talk about the soul, I'm not talking about like an "ooh," magic little ghost in my face. I think of it more as a

word used to acknowledge that there's so much unknown about how we experience consciousness, and that cumulative blind

spot is the soul. Maybe so. Here's what's left after all this: What is most quintessentially us? Are we most

ourselves when unobserved? When the great performance of it finally ends, is that the soul? You, sitting in the shower, you

dreaming? If people are just observing and knowing the performance of you, is there something greater inside that they

can't know? That they must not know? Something entirely inscrutable. I don't know. First, I'll say though that living

to me doesn't feel like being gracefully brought into the world from somewhere else. It feels like having been ripped

from the universal fabric and then becoming a separate, more volatile observer of it; messier than lying flush

against its surface. There's a total seclusion to the mind. Consciousness is an island you can neither escape nor

populate. You're in there, of course. No, you can never really know what it's like in here, no matter how much you love

somebody. You can never really know what it's like in there, and especially if what I said before is true about the

self being instantaneous: No one can know me, let alone if "me" is constantly changing. No matter how well I know

myself, I'm constrained to the communication of who I am through language, which I love, but is often

clumping. It's just like an invention, like anything else; it isn't equipped for every emotional eventuality. All language

is already operating in translation. You're trying to communicate what, in their nature, are wordless, abstract impulses. This is, I think, why I like

writing, because the more accurately I can use this one tool I have, the better odds I face of being understood, which I

find incredibly comforting. But yeah, this is something that really, really upsets me. Um, like, day-to-day, I'm quite shaken by

it. And that's not to say... I love being alone. I love being alone. I'm never happier than when I...

set this scene: November evening, I have a Northern Line live stream on, a glass of wine, I've just started a medium-difficulty crossword

puzzle, and it's raining outside. That's it, actually. Scrap the video; that's my identity. I figured it out: I love to be

alone. It's a *lack* of choice in the matter I find upsetting. And, of course, what I'm talking about isn't just a

loneliness as in, like, there's nobody in my house. It's a loneliness like no one will ever truly know what it

was like for me to be alive, except for me. And I'll never be able to truly know the people I love. It's hard not to see

if i'm you and you're me then...who's that

if i'm you and you're me then...who's that