I’ve spent the last four weeks slashing days off interminable calendars, and reading far too much about the neuroscience of identity. I’ve spent nights looking at pictures of myself that have no discernible resemblance to who I thought I was, and I now have no problem admitting that I’ve surrendered to the nebulous cloud of identity on which cognition can’t put its finger, instead of the convenient version that people need to cling to just to get by every day. I am lucky to wake up in the morning, but never confident that I will.