This Odyssey is the progenitor of Western selfhood.
It’s a poem about coming home after a long, long journey.
But the question it poses isn’t “Did you come home?”
The question is “Who came home?”
“I did!” You exclaim!
But makes you you? Is it your body, which is just a slowly deteriorating meat prison that keeps requesting things? Your memories, which you’re constantly editing like Wikipedia entries about your own life? Your story, which changes based on who’s listening and what you need from them? The people who recognize you, which is terrifying because what if they stop?
