There is a difference between breadth and depth. Breadth is knowing a lot of different stuff. Depth is being able to do those things, under stress, while sleep deprived, because you’ve spent so much time doing them, under so many different conditions.
We spend our lives trying to discern where we end and the rest of the world begins. We snatch our freeze-frame of life from the simultaneity of existence by holding on to illusions of permanence, congruence, and linearity; of static selves and lives that unfold in sensical narratives. All the while, we mistake chance for choice, our labels and models of things for the things themselves, our records for our history. History is not what happened, but what survives the shipwrecks of judgment and chance.