A stream is not a thing but a happening. Water does not pause to consider its identity before becoming rapids, becoming mist, becoming the slow deep pull of an underground aquifer. It is always in the act of transit, always leaving one shape to find the next.
We speak of streams of consciousness as though thought were water, and perhaps it is. Each moment pools briefly in the eddy of attention before slipping downstream, replaced by the next. The stream does not remember its tributaries. It only knows the direction it is flowing.
This is what becoming feels like from the inside: not a destination growing closer, but a continuous unfolding that was always already underway.