is it still my room when i'm not in it? what if none of my stuff is in it? and what makes it my stuff? what makes it my bed, my books, my computer, my clothes? i didn't make them. i didn't write them. they weren't made for me, they weren't written for me. they're just, objects, separated from other spaces by a shell of walls. and somehow, no one else feels entitled to this space, or these objects. can i take this further? what makes it my prosthetic heart valve? or my dental fillings? what makes them my teeth, my hands, my eyes, my lungs? my memories? my thoughts? my dreams?
psychoanalysts and frequently psychiatrists have to be psychoanalyzed before they can practice. i think trauma surgeons should have to be shot or stabbed.
(i might want to rethink oncology. and no one would ever want to be a coroner. and pediatrics would flourish)
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