Just one breath ago

In handwriting, not one of my characters looks exactly the same as the others; even if I draw a row of the same character, even if I intend them to look exactly the same. Which means that every movement of my highly trained and dextrous hand is different.

Which in turn means, and I can only assume, that not a single of any of my movements is exactly the same; not a single breath is exactly the same as the previous; and neither is any single thought running through my head, even if it was the same thought as just before.

Which in turn means, and I can only assume, that every time I look at something my looking as well must be slightly different than the previous one, even if the thing that I’m looking at hasn’t changed at all. Or has it?

I feel my feet, the floor, my shoes, my legs, my trousers against my skin, my behind and the chair I’m sitting on. I feel grounded and safe. My birth certificate is still the same. The name on my passport hasn’t changed at all. And yet I must assume that I’m already a slightly different person compared to just one breath ago.