Coins are little time capsules, that’s what they feel like. When you stare at a Roman denarius you see more than a piece of metal – you see the emperor’s portrait, a goddess, a victory symbol. Those images were chosen to remind people what mattered, to anchor the present to a grand narrative. In a way, a coin carries a snapshot of a collective consciousness: who they worshiped, what they claimed as power, how they saw their place in the flow of history. The fact that the same coin design might be stamped across decades hints at an early sense of continuity, a desire to stitch the present to the past, to make time feel more like a story than a straight line. So yes, there’s a thread there – a thread that ties the small metal disk to the larger idea of how we think about time and identity.

I once came across a Roman denarius that bore a small, almost hidden image of a dolphin leaping out of water, right beside the emperor’s head. The dolphin is a weird choice for a state coin – not a typical Roman symbol of power or virtue. It made me pause and think that perhaps the mint was trying to remind people of the sea as a boundary, a flow that connects the empire to far‑off lands. That tiny animal, tucked into a design meant to reinforce authority, felt like a quiet whisper that even the most structured society acknowledges something fluid and unpredictable. It was a subtle hint that the Romans, too, had to reckon with currents beyond their control, a tiny reminder that the past isn’t a straight line but a series of ripples.