”We are entirely made up of bits and pieces, woven together so diversely and so shapelessly that each one of them pulls its own way at every moment. And there is as much difference between us and ourselves as there is between us and other people.” I will not pretend to have the talent or wisdom to improve upon Montaigne’s words. The essay that houses them is beautiful, near perfection.
Perhaps some would look upon this inconsistency with sadness or disappointment. I prefer to see the diverse beauty in the description. Even in our inconsistencies, we are still ourselves. The masks we must wear, the adaptations forced upon us, the desperate attempts to fit in where we may not belong, all are fully human, worthy of not just our understanding, but our love.
If we could enter a world of our creation, fitted to our rules and matching our desires, perhaps then a human could be a singular, complete, understandable being. But even in our inconsistencies, over time we create our souls. We make choices and stand up for values that define us. Eventually we find the ability to look back at it all with appreciation for how our forked path took us home.