How do we become ourselves? This is the ever baffling thing.
Am I myself because of how I look? Am I myself because of the itchy jumpers and tight pants I wear? Am I me because I think about things the way that I do, like, yet unlike, hundreds of others?
Am I made of the other small things, the moments that flit by like light upon a fragment of water? Am I myself because of the way my breath catches when I see you standing idly in the mornings? Or because my stomach churns and flutters when our eyes accidentally meet, strangers on either side of an impregnable wall, yet more familiar than we dare admit?
You'll walk one way, I'll walk another, and maybe someday our hands will touch, our eyes will not scamper away from each other when they meet, and we'll decide, simultaneously in our hearts and heads that this is where we ought to be.
We'll look back on the dark, and find that we did not become ourselves, we simply shed more light on who we already were.
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