I choose what I become.

Look at somebody's bedside table and you get a fairly honest forecast. Three books started, one finished, a charger, a glass of water from two nights ago. Whatever is within arm's reach at eleven at night is what a person is quietly becoming.

Almost nobody chooses in one sitting. The decision gets made in fragments — what you keep near you, which invitations you accept, whose messages you answer the same evening rather than next week.

None of that feels like choosing. It feels like Tuesday. But a year of Tuesdays is the mechanism, and it is far more available to you than any single grand decision would ever be.