Life is a bit like a dining table. You sit, thinking you’re the guest, but the table’s been there longer than appetite. You eat what’s offered, you imitate the motion, like birds learning the sky. Being yourself might be a kind of possession, an exit wound, a disappearing act. You enter with great force to succeed in forgetting yourself. Freedom is perhaps the same—a frame that allows any variation. The shape left behind. The room you move through without breaking.