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Almost finished watching the first season of Westworld. Last year, when I watched it for the first time, I had very closed feelings. Looking through Meave’s eyes at what‘s going on in her fictional world, I can’t help myself seeing similarities in our perception. I mean, everybody is obsessed with their own stories, and almost no one pays attention to the nature of the self. We’re all predisposed to stick to our feelings and thoughts, so that everything else is not just meaningless, but unreal.
When I’m trying to think about it, I get confused so quickly. Somehow, I have much more empathy for hosts than for humans. It seems I can easily understand how it feels to be a doll. Moreover, I have seven years of the recorded history of being a doll aware of its nature. Being human means being a doll, a mere puppet of emotions, desires, will, reason, etc.
For the last couple of days, I’ve been making these notes sitting at the table. That’s something new. Since I began writing in English, I usually made notes lying in bed. That’s why there is such an ugly handwriting.
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