Your indelibly particular selfhood can only be a kind of knot twisted into a clear and featureless knowingness, the pure silent brilliance of being. If its complexity seems to extend infinitely turning into and out of itself in every dimension this is only a kind of fractality, the apparent iterations of a simple trope. Take away these imaginary dimensions and you are left with something fully equal to any of its momentary lyrical expressions. So a poem or similar utterance set down is the same as the mind that sets it down, is a perfect crystallisation of said indelibly particular selfhood and as much alive or not as the fleeting recognition in mind. It's not that you impress yourself into the clay of meaning but that you have never been anything than a fleeting impression in mindless mind, just like every thing you see.