Until recently, I failed to consider that our personalities develop as if we are a big container that fills through life with our reactions to the world, and that our character is built from all those reactions. We eventually become what is inside the container. But the vessel itself does not change, which means there is always a potential to reverse who we are.

That insight is validating, because without the reminders in the mirror or the small printed text that every damn day gets harder to read, I would not be aware I’m nearly fifty. After all the years of mocking the dumb cliché when I was too young to understand it, now I know age really is just a number (at least until we’re dead). Before, I used to think I would evolve, as if physical growth or emotional maturity would somehow alter who I would be. But that was an ignorant mistake, and now it’s clear, despite what we think, age doesn’t matter at all unless we care about the conventions of others.

Before realizing my error about the nature of my self, I often considered becoming a recluse. I didn’t know why this appealed to me. At least now I’m comfortable reversing who I am by unraveling from the world, and forgetting its expectations.