You’re not walking around consciously choosing what to pick up. You don’t choose. You don’t decide. It sticks like a crumb you accidentally stepped onto. Like cat’s hair. Good luck trying to get rid of it: while cleaning one, you get three more. Sometimes some dry out and fall off. You don’t choose which either.
Phrase here, intonation there, a bit of smile from that one, a funny move from another…
I wonder, if someone who has known you some time ago, meets you again in some years, and then meets some people from the same circles - how long does it take to tell those you’ve been interacting with most during those years by how they’ve grown into you, by spotting in them all those new things you’ve become.
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