Libra
Real life, life finally uncovered and clarified, the only life in consequence lived to the full, is literature. Life in this sense dwells within all ordinary people as much as the artist. But they do not see it because they are not trying to shed light on it.
Marcel Proust, Time Regained
The version of yourself you outgrew did not disappear cleanly. It lives on in old photographs that make you wince and in the way certain people still talk to you as if you have not changed at all. There is something almost convincing about who you used to be, the way that person made sense of the world and moved through rooms. But sense-making and truth-telling are different projects entirely. The work now is not to argue with who you were but to let the distance between then and now make its own quiet case for why you had to become someone else.