I am under the belief that every person, including mineself, is made of paper. We all start off as a blank sheet of paper, with not even as much as any crinkles of conjecture in it. But soon, the hands start cutting, tearing, wrinkling, and drawing. With markers, they'll colour in our ideals, and then they'll shape our image with rough, imperfect tears; after that, they'll cut off any pieces needed to build nuance. No paper human is the same as the next, because the art of handcrafting is that it is never truly identical with each copy. We're unaware of it, but as our life traverses, the hands continue to layer colours and cut off parts, then glue on some other ones. 

We are what others make of us, after all. Our identity inartistically shaped by the hands of others from the way we leave the printer.