Who am I?

My hands were shaking a little more every day, and I seemed able to walk less freely. Was it my imagination, or was I thinking differently too? ... I worried more too. It wasn´t like me at all. But then what was me? "I" wasn´t some psychic, mysterious, fluid something; "I" wasn´t some nebulous, etheric, or astral substance, nor some unchanging soul or spirit. I had to be a product of my body and brain. It made perfect sense that when body and brain were sick, I would change too. I realized then the very frailty of my concept of my own self, my own personality. Just a little extra hormone and "I" was quite profoundly changed. Perhaps "I" wasn´t even there any more. "I" was some new person. It was the same old problem that always haunted me when thinking about memory. How much of myself could "i" remember? Who was remembering whom?

Blackmore, In Search of the Light, 153-154.

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