I act as though I am an author - not because I am one, but because I have no other choice

From the inside, everything appears to start with me: a thought arises, and I say, “I came up with it”; a desire appears, and I claim, “I felt it”; a decision forms, and I conclude, “I chose it.”

My mind operates on causal processes, but consciousness misperceives them, interpreting the final result as the beginning - the last station on a long railway line of physics, biology, experience, character, momentary states, hormones, social influences, ideas, and memes.

And just as vision does not register its own blind spots, consciousness does not register its own causal roots. It sees the tip of the iceberg and mistakes it for the whole iceberg.

I am not an author in the metaphysical sense - my choices are consequences, not creations. But I act as an author because that is how a system of our type manages to survive, to predict, to plan, to create, and to navigate.

And perhaps this is where the real human peculiarity lies: I am a puppet playing the role of a puppeteer and I play it so well that sometimes I fool even myself.