Continuity Studies
On sediment, revision, and the persistence of self

Time doesn’t pass. It thickens.
*
It gathers in the joints of the knees,
in the hinge of the jaw,
and in the quiet places where language no longer fits so easily.
*
People talk about progress as if it were a staircase.
I experience it as layered sediment,
fine particles settling over older versions of my original name.
*
Identity feels negotiated in back rooms.
Memory signs first.
Expectation adjusts the lighting until it's just right.
*
The body maintains its own debt records.
It tallies sugar, salt, hours without sleep.
It archives touch with alarming precision.
*
I used to think I would become something stable.
*
My favorite color used to be purple.
*
The realization arrives without context,
bright and self-contained,
a sticker peeled from a childhood notebook
and pressed into a philosophy lecture.
*
Somewhere between innocence and abstraction,
the world acquired its strange, sprawling weight.
Edges sharpen
And metaphors lose their milk teeth.
*
Desire refines itself into policy,
As fear revises its résumé.
Even longing must submit expense reports.
*
So I study continuity the way a surgeon studies scar tissue,
by carefully scanning and logging what refuses to disappear.
*
Every former self lingers at the perimeter.
They hum together softly in harmony,
a choir without choreography.
*
I remember believing that preferences revealed destiny.
Favorite colors.
Beloved seasons.
Hoped-for futures.
Now I inventory revisions instead.
What migrated,
calcified.
What evaporated without fanfare.
The sky insists on blue whether I prefer that or not.
And the body insists on gravity, too.
*
Essence, if it exists, behaves like weather,
uninterested in my thesis.
*
I still keep a few objects from that earlier life.
A bracelet with elastic nearly gone,
A notebook filled with rounded handwriting,
And a faded shade of purple that looks louder than it ever felt back then.
*
Continuity may be nothing more
than a series of provisional shapes
that agree, for a while,
to share a name.
*
I stand in the latest version of myself
and listen for the sound of sediment settling.
*
And something inside continues,
While something else watches from the other side of the fence.
About the Creator
Shannon Hilson
Pro copywriter chasing wonder, weirdness, and the stories that won’t leave me alone. Fiction, poetry, and reflections live here.
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