I am at work.
I don't remember deciding to come in today.
I wonder how many choices I actually make.
I wonder how a collection of cells can make choices at all.
Perhaps the concept of personal continuity is just a convenient fiction.
An evolutionary artifact devised by my selfish genes
To further their own agenda.
The evidence suggests that I am just a loose connection of divisible parts.
Perhaps it is not so much that I think therefore I am,
But that someone thinks.
Or perhaps something.
Can things think?
Am I someone or something?
Is there a difference?
Perhaps I am just an emergent property of an indifferent universe
Which is expanding into nothingness at an accelerating rate.
Even universes die.
I will die too.
In a sense I have already died countless times.
As the person I am gives way to an imperfect copy.
I am an impostor in my own skin,
Coasting in the wake of my previous self:
The previous self who decided I should come to work today.
But life is much shorter than I had supposed.
