I could sit and agonize forever on how to set you up for this book, search for the perfect anecdote, or story, or memory. But there is no perfect retrievable moment to wax nostalgic over, or all-encompassing tale to tell. To examine the limitless definition of what we are requires us to see our life for what it was, and what it is, in its glory and despair. To revisit our happiness and joy, but never forgetting to relive our confusion and fear. To honestly pull back the layers of the love we've found and lost. To drink from our roots, smell the perfume on their necks, and navigate the mundane shit that floats between identifiable feelings, once again. And even then, there is always more to learn. It's a strange puzzle, life. The pieces keep taking on new forms just as we are close to having it all together. And I'm not sure we are ever meant to have it all together. One thing I can tell you is, I'm no better off by the end of this book. No worse off, either. There's no profound discoveries made. At its core, this book exists simply to recognize that even though our stories pen themselves differently, we are more similar than we thought. We aren't as alone as we think we are, with how we feel, or with what we go through. Although pain might shape us, it doesn't have to define us, or even those that inflict it upon us. I don't know if this babbling makes sense outside of my skull. I don't know if I've now helped or hindered this reading experience for you. I don't know if I've made you more, or less, interested to continue. And to be honest, I don't know if I even care. But here are the few things I do know ... We are the permanent rearrangement of an individual existence. We are the current in the sea. We are not one thing.