I get consumed by particular ways of perceiving the world. Certain concepts stick in my mind and guide my eyes to see things in a certain light. And it shifts all the time. Subtly, quietly, always shifting.
This time last year I felt as though I was trapped inside a perpetual cycle of growth and death. And these cycles kept speeding up and up until I was here one second and gone the next. Even though I don’t remember much about that year, one thing is still clear in my head.
Nauseated by the constant shedding and growing of identities, I constructed a metaphor that I clung tightly to. It was never truly formed in words, more like a muted image in the back of my mind that washed me over with calm whenever I started to float away.
One night I wrote in my journal about ‘sitting among the rubble’ of a life that had collapsed around me and I realised that this meant I now had the space to build something new. So I did. I cleared away the dirt and I built a new identity and I let it stand in the space where the old Me used to be. And it stood there for a while. And I was whole for a while. And then it crumbled down again and I sat down among the rubble again. And then I started over. Again. And again.
I kept this cycle in my mind. Build. Stand. Fall. Rest. Build. Stand. Fall. Rest. And instead of trying to go against the inevitable ebb and flow of the cosmos I learned (at least I tried) to go with the waves. And this was how I looked at life one year ago: the architect of a temporal Self. Building identities that collapsed more often than they survived, but surrendering to the process nonetheless.
After all, what is life other than