I find myself thinking about death. Not the final death, but about the nightly death. 

Everytime we go to sleep, are we dying, a little? And then in the next morning, we pick up the memories of who we were and continue. But that person is not us, and the person the next day is not me.

And over time we are living a life made by people who are not us. Carrying forward on their lived inertia.

And you find yourself having to carry out the expectations of someone you barely recognize, yet must obey. 

Your past self, a tyrant ruling over your future selves, from the grave.

Is that a sin? To feel like you are only a puppet, dangling at the ends of strings that you yourself have pulled?

-Confessions of Saint Vau to a High Priest