bunla
Change
On waking, our consciousness gathers up the clothes it left the night before by the bedside table. These are the garments that make us feel like a self. A cohesion of matter and thoughts. The night before we left worn clothes, clothes with a history. Sometimes torn, sometimes with new golden buttons. A whole personal history. And in the morning we pick them up and dress ourselves.
The fabric wears out, changes, whipped by damned Chronos, time without scruples. But it doesn’t change every day, or every hour, or every minute; it changes constantly. In every instant.
It doesn’t suit the mind to understand that in every instant we are different. We depend on the inertia of being, on the seemingly constant entity we believe ourselves to be. We only admit we have changed when it is unavoidable. When we compare the young man with the adult, the adult with the old man, or the wisdom gained after some particular experience. But in truth the changes in our being are brutal, frequent, relentless. Yet we keep up the illusion, without thinking it is an illusion. Daydreams.
In the mornings I pick up yesterday’s identity, which is no longer the same. Nor is it after this full stop.