And perverts our conciousness.

Why memorise? ... I don't know.
What is a human being? Someone with the correct configuration of genes, presumably.

And who am I? Am I this body; this body, which can be broken, changed and destroyed? The human body replaces itself entirely in seven years. It is constantly morphing and changing, and is never fixed. Thus, "I" cannot be the human body.

Is it the mind? I think not; that self, too, constantly morphs and adapts. New information is put into it, and that information can shake the foundations of my mind and reduce all previous trains of thought into broken wrecks. Thus, "I" cannot be my mind.

So, am I the sum of my memories and experiences? These are rooted in fact; they are rooted in my memory; my mind is dictated by the former and my body shaped by the latter. Surely, then, my memories and experiences are what form myself.

But who am I, then? I, whose memory is rarely, if ever, an analogue to the apparent truth? Do I have no self at all? I would argue most stringently against such a proposal. Who is Achromatic Morality? Are she and I one and the same? Or am I merely a being who thinks and remembers that she is, and is no more then a pretender to the name -- an accidental pretender, but one nevertheless.

What am I to do, then? Abandon it, and forsake my way? What good would that do, if my memory is malleable and has proven itself to be falsifiable? I would leave the role only to find myself endlessly compelled to return to it. And the same goes for everything else; each thought that exists in my head is not my own, it is merely something computed from the premises of my personality; premises which are built on malleable memories.

... sorry. It's late, and I'm tired.

-Achromatic Morality-