The Moment We Became Ourselves
We age into strangers while our 'real selves' remain anchored in past moments. Is authentic identity a continuum, or merely a point when time and self achieved perfect alignment? The yellowed photograph we point to—'THIS is the REAL ME'—reveals our paradoxical relationship with time; our bodies surrender to its flow whilst our essential selves resist. If we could separate consciousness from chronology, would we discover that selfhood exists not in duration but in singular instances when we felt most alive? Like sailors who identify with the homeland rather than the ocean they navigate, we carry within us fixed coordinates of self amidst the ceaseless current of becoming.