by Tom Swift

It is staggering how much I keep fumbling for identity this well into the proceedings.

You reach a certain point in which you look back and see how unsettled you used to be and think, “I’m so glad I’m not back there anymore.” There is pleasure in this moment: when you actually look down your own nose at your past self.

Silly kid!

But then you press your more weathered nose against another window and, surprisingly, see in it your reflection. While you were not fooled before — while you are not, in fact, where you once were — you aren’t as formed as you thought when you felt so mighty as to sneer at yourself.

Look at how you just tried to show who you are in the way you made that joke to the book club. In the way you looked for that organization to support. That team to root for. That woman to hold.

It’s the way of life — oscillation is the word that comes up — growth then regression then growth again — and probably the Buddhists would have something to say to me about attachment and ideas of the Self.

But I do not wish to grasp at answers this morning.

I wish not to solve anything. Or try to put down something called truth.

I think this is enough: to see what I have seen about myself.