The egg!
There is a strange thought that has followed me for a long time. Perhaps you have had it too, although you may have pushed it away because some thoughts are uncomfortable precisely because they refuse to leave us alone. What, after all, is the difference between you and me? Is it the colour of your eyes? The shape of your face? The body you were given before you had any understanding of what a body was? Your religion, perhaps or your disbelief? Your kindness? My cruelty? My love for cats and your inexplicable hatred of them? We collect these differences carefully, as though they were proof. I am this. You are that. And then we build our lives upon this little distinction. But sometimes I wonder whether the distinction is real at all. You did not choose to be born. Neither did I. You did not choose your parents, your childhood, the country into which you opened your eyes, the language that first gave names to the things around you. You did not choose the face in the mirror. You did not ...
