Obviously, it is very egotistical, as you will see. It is this: what if I am living in a simulation, but my consciousness is just a partial reconstruction of my former self? What if once, I was someone famous or revered, and immediately after I died my brain was frozen. Fast forward and people figure out how to decode my basic essence into digital form, but the process was incomplete, rendering only a fraction of my former self into a workable digital form. Being that I was once famous (I like to fancy I was a renowned writer/thinker), they leave the digital projection running, hoping to glen some novel snippet of my thoughts and talents to offer the world. Such a reality would explain my egotistical sense of greatness, as well as my continual apathy and seeming inability to substantially realize my dreams and desires. I am an echo, a fading force inexorably rippling outwards into oblivion. With every glance inwards towards my origin, my original self; centered at the source of the widening ripple, grows less distinct. Ever and ever less discernible. While my consciousnesses is aware of itself, yet it is incapable of creating anything new: doomed to wander the now broken pathways of a former life, held within their domain by an inner apathy that permits free thought while simultaneously suppressing meaningful action. I guess I should stop being 12 and go see someone...