Each morning it hung there, the gnawing sense that things had always been this way. A dull throb in brain and bowels. Stumbling about. Slurping hot tea to flush the body with fever; then, rustling up breakfast. A sandwich slap-dashed together and wrapped for travel. It was all quite unremarkably routine. She had to remind herself that it had once been different, that one day in the near or distant future it would switch again, that whenever she convinced herself that the arrangement of her life was static she risked missing the point, the unique kernel contained in the moment, which she was certain to apotheosize as time swept her immutably closer to oblivion.
“What is it that makes a person the very person that she is, herself alone and not another, an integrity of identity that persists over time, undergoing changes and yet still continuing to be – until she does not continue any longer – at least not unproblematically?” Rebecca Goldstein
“When I look most transparent is probably when I have just come out of the fire.” Anais Nin