I was thinking about the nature of change, and how we tend to assume there is a continuity of “us” that, when we really probe the matter, turns out to be essentially untrue.
Do you keep journals? Have you ever gone back to read really old entries, and found yourself visiting an exotic place all but unknown to you? Who is the “you” who wrote those entries all those years ago, or who appears in the old family portrait?
We want to cling to who we were; we are perhaps afraid of being adrift, or more adrift that we already feel. But is this really so scary, or is this maybe the very key to our freedom and happiness, that if we really try, we can begin, and begin again?
I thought it would be interesting to flip to random pages of old journals to see what I could find, and I found this on the first page I flipped to …