Pristine, untainted, and translucent, yet scratched and stripped, is the empty figure the mirror reflects. The same pearl-wrapped soul is draped with the changing seasons, for we witness the dilemma of our mirror self — the waning life at the verge of dissolving into a hollow structure, sculpted and refined with the same brown in eyes and black in hair and infectious feelings, yet every cell is transformed and replaced, every emotion reverberated — for we shed in autumns, bloom in springs, are crisp in winters, and melt in summers. For every sunrise marks a new us, maybe better or brighter, carrying a story retold, and the moon goes down with a nudged mod or a sour sod.
Humanity is inherently wired to sense every nuanced shift in its internal and external atmosphere. Be it the crimson rush in veins or smoked vacuoles of the brain, we are designed to precariously sustain ourselves through passing moments and days, and this is how life works for us; it never stops or waits. It changes its course every second from the rough patches to dainty streets, from the aromatic valleys to withered shrubs; for one day it may offer a bed of roses, and the other day the thorns of it pricking every edge of your structure, leaving behind evidence for you to surge and suffer or to revive or cover.
Life is like a rollercoaster that bends up and clocks back towards the Earth, with the air slashing your face and whipping out the dead you carry, for you aren’t the same as before, but you carry the same primordial core, the same soul of birth, and the same heart beating but with mutated rhythms, because the old ones might not transfuse with the new needs, for you never hold the same physicality or mentality during the summation of one’s duration on Earth.
The existential arc of a human being maps the phases of life; the unborn innate scrutiny remains, depicting one just holding the cord from the matrix, then losing the grip and falling off into a world where its eyes smoulder in changing lights, and with time it survives and grows into a new creature that understands and suspects, can talk and deliver, and can twist the words but can’t replenish the hunger on its own, for it is yet to be exposed to the bigger world, and then one day when it leaves the progenitor habitat to explore itself, it sees the enormous crowds, each carrying hundreds and thousands of different people; it sees the natural evolution; it looks on at the spike in atmosphere and has to enquire what it holds inside, to look for its colour in the rainbow palette, its star up in the sky, the moon to light up its world, and the sun shadowing its identity, grasping and regathering as the clouds navigate.
We are moulded and reshaped over the course of time, decamping parts of our identity, sloughing the unwanted self, and unveiling the reconstituted, freshly minted layer. We break and shatter, yet we gather our parts to make a new version of ourselves, a version that satisfies the very being, a version that ecstatically shakes up within, a version of ourselves that never existed before, a version that manifests our “identity”. For everything in this world divulges, the flowers, once fragrant and chromatic, fall dead in no time, supplanted by a more enduring substance, for this is what the “Ship of Theseus” experiment screams: that one spirals and takes new turns, showing off a new different side, superseded by fresh anatomy, for if one doesn’t change, it rots and vanishes to death, so the refurbishing is the necessity of life, but no matter what you do, the framework stays the same; the core has its roots deep, and you are you regardless of what goes and what stays.
The identity may wash off, but the soul can’t be altered. The phenomenon of the induced fit model, as described in the lock and key model presented by Emil Fischer for the working biology of protein topography on arrival of molecular matter, supports the concept of dwindling identity, for it highlights how conformational realignment occurs for one’s survival, and this is what glints at the concept of why we aren’t the same person over time, for our mirror self might mimic the superficial aspect, but it itself doesn’t show us the same substratum every day, for our emotions to visions float and dive into a deeper ocean of fluctuating resonances.
Even if we want to be the same old self, we can’t, for every moment we take a step ahead, away from the static self, running miles away, never to return. For who are we? If we don’t mask off with changing identities, for whom are we without our vulnerability to outshine the crawling worms around us? For who are we without the filters we put on to appear unvarnished? For we are born to conceal the crux with layers of shroud, silky shiny veils that keep the essence alive, for we strip away the label, keeping the truth of us being us alive, the honour of the soul we carry, the heart that beats, the eyes that see, and the mind that feels, for we can be the roses in sable, the tulips in bramble; we can be the whites and purples, the blues and blacks; we can be faded and shaded, constant yet transformed. So the concept of change is birthed in our nature, and it decides to let go or keep the core we depend upon.
One of the best reads! Kudos to the writer, well written! Loved it! ♥️