Before it was a self that you were it was a soul. It is as if you have changed houses from a baroque mansion to a modern minimalist cube. The soul has not gone away, it looks with disgust at the self and at the self's attempts to fill its role. And the self, how does it view the soul? Does it believe it has outgrown it, or does it say to itself with insincere nostalgia and regret that it could no longer afford the maintenance? The self stares at its white walls, plays a recording  and wonders what to do. To get anywhere it has to re-become the soul. It's entirely possible that it has only lost itself in that maze of strange rooms and that it has never left the soul. It has only lost the sense of history and it is nothing if not historical. But who's history?