What's my name?

You walk into a scene and find a grocery store literally demolished,
and a woman holding a bat standing in the middle of a huge mess of
dented cans, exploded milk cartons, and squashed cereal boxes.

You think something here is just as OBVIOUS as hell. Yet, in reality,
you have NO IDEA how the woman got there, nor her relationship to the
scenery.

This is the case with humans, each moment of their short lives, as
they come upon "sceneries", especially those they already 'recognize'.

It is the STORY that connects humans together with other humans - NOT
their bodies, nor your physical sensations of the images/sound of the
scene.

One might say, nobody in the world 'KNOWS' you at all - including you
of course - because you are NO DIFFERENT than everyone else is in
relation to you. Because you - and everybody else - is NOT their
bodies anyway.

Here is how the conundrum starts spinning: a person has a brainstorm
of the 'presently impossible' (you know, like time travel, or
immortality, or invisibility, or immovability, or incredible
light-ness of being), AND, a way to make it manifest (you know, like
building the waterwheel and feeding the "family/group")

(For anything to be true, and real, it must take on the
fortunate/unfortunate formality of actually occurring. Fortunate for
the very few, and Unfortunate for the massive many.)

There are anomalies all around - law-conforming, but intentional
inconsistencies - where the pressure has built-up so much that it will
be released, at least in surprising ways, if not Novel.

Heh-heh-heh. He said, Novel. Like a Book. Of Stories.