It is said that a person is just a person. But that’s not true. A person is an entire galaxy, a world with doors always left ajar, where shadows and lights wander, old loves and forgotten fears, newborn promises and memories that still breathe.

Each of us is like a drop of dew clinging to the edge of morning. And if you look closely, beyond the fragile shimmer, you’ll see an entire sky compressed there, silent, blinking with thousands of stars as small as grains of sand. Inside every person, the stars are alive — they are dreams, they are voices, they are the people we have been, the people we wanted to become, and the ones still waiting to take shape.

A person is never just one. One day, they walk firmly on asphalt, like an architect of their own life. On another, they become the child who would climb a tree just to touch the sky. Sometimes they wear their smile like armor; other times, they walk their vulnerability like a loyal dog, down the streets of their thoughts.

At every moment, a person is the theater of their own characters. They are the dreamer who believes they can change the world and the skeptic who knows the world won’t easily change. They are the adult who counts bills and the child who counts stars. They are storm and calm, beginning and end, question and answer.

And maybe there is no such thing as “Who am I?” but rather “How many am I?” Not a single answer, but a constellation of answers, lighting up and fading away with the rhythm of life.

How many people live inside one person? Perhaps as many as the eyes the night has, as many as the footsteps lost on city streets, as many as the heartbeats time has gathered in a single life. Perhaps more. Perhaps infinite.

A person is not a linear story but a kaleidoscope of fragments, a tapestry of emotions, a puzzle that never wants to be completed.

And maybe that’s what it means to be alive: to never be just one, but always be all.