We often walk
as if watched by two invisible judges.
One demands loyalty to an essence
we are supposed to have carried forever.
The other accuses us of falseness,
raising the charge of inauthenticity
whenever we try to be different.
Between these two extremes,
life turns into a constant exercise in correction:
we polish gestures, edit our words,
afraid of seeming too fabricated
or too unchanging.
But real biographies
do not behave like statues.
They resemble open notebooks,
full of crossings-out, additions, and unexpected detours.
We are a mixture,
made of earlier versions of ourselves and borrowed influences.
That is why hybridity can seem suspect, almost like a fault;
yet, at heart, it is simply the everyday process
through which someone slowly
becomes who they are.
Perhaps the mistake lies
in believing we must choose
between purity and artifice.
There is a middle space
where we accept that we change,
not out of imposture,
but through contact with the world.
And in that space,
guilt begins to lose its grip:
we stop asking for permission
not to be identical to yesterday,
and we start to look at our mixture
with a new calm,
almost with gratitude.
And so 2025 passes: with the feeling that we are moving forward,
with the simple serenity
of accepting that motion continues
and that life, discretly, in silence, keeps reshaping us.
