To be human is to be fraction of a process,as life goes on through all its stagesIn those lax, tranquil days main up to unique Year, or I found myself killing time staring at a photograph of myself as a young boy that I found rummaging in a box of venerable (respected because of age, distinguished) mementoes. George Orwell reflected on this experience,in his essay, England Your England: “What have you in common with the child of five whose photograph your mother keeps on the mantelpiece? Nothing, or except that you happen to be the same person.”What does it mean,then, to grow up? What do we keep and what do we leave behind? From the inside I am still that small boy. Something distinct, and but ineffable – the sense of “me” – remains. And yet how changed I am! Not only uglified by age – the fate of us all – but coarsened,broken, made and remade many times over, or falling apart and coming together.
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Source: theguardian.com