What have I become and who did I used to be? Was it ever truly me?
These questions come to mind as I lie awake in the grips of melancholy. This is a very human thing to contemplate. I’m pretty sure somewhere someone else must be pondering the exact same thing.
It would be curious to discover who it is to whom one writes in a diary. Possibly to some mysterious personification of one’s own identity. Beatrice Webb
I have felt friendless and lonely and I have also felt the warmth of genuine friendship at different points in my life. As I become older and more cynical these boyhood ideals of friendship and one for all and all for one seem to lose their warm glow. Is it that the world has changed or is it that I have?