This attempt to “reassemble” oneself — a chaotic person with a dozen voices inside — into one. The tool is memory. It’s thin, layered, non-linear — it stores randomly thrown by someone else phrases, firmly imprinted episodes from childhood, diary entries, rhymes, random images. Some memories slip through the surface, others are lost in the darkness, or overlap and intermingle.
Suddenly, images from childhood begin to resonate with the social agenda. Inhibitions return to the state of a non-self-acting child. The informative background becomes poetry. Random phrases turn into behavioral attitudes. Where do I end up? What is not me? Is it really possible to “collect me”? My boundaries seem blurred and sliding — extending far outwards.