Ode to Change

feathers

Be it welcome or not, change is coming, is always coming, is always here, stealing familiarity from under our noses in a slow pull, so imperceptibly that if we refuse to acknowledge it we may wake up one day and find that the furniture’s been rearranged overnight.

Change is Death’s dog, chewing the bones of our foundations and leaving terrible little surprises on the carpet that we must stop and clean up right away, lest it leave a stain. I don’t recall offering to pet-sit, but I find myself nonetheless being dragged down shaded avenues to mark every tree.

Change is the frightening reflection pressing fingers to tired eyes, asking, “When did I get so old?” and the realization that no amount of magic lotion applied as directed will stop the march of time over the landscape of the body.

Change is fruit that rots before it can be eaten and it is the flies that claim the putrid sweetness and it is the wriggle of tiny white bodies without faces or limbs, only hungry mouths eating away at food too small to see.

Change is thinking, “Maybe I was wrong – no – I was definitely wrong” and choosing a different action, this time.

Change is a carnival ride that may or may not fall apart just as the rusted car begins the terrifying, exhilarating descent.

Change is fever-pitched inspiration within soul-eating madness that leaves in its wake a long string of beautiful creations that are disorienting, challenging you to look away if you dare.

Change is the wheel ever turning, Equinox to Solstice to Equinox to Solstice, still in the center but dizzying on the edges.

Change wants you to subscribe to its channel, to come back again and again, to lose yourself in its stories until there is no you left, only a mercurial dance from moment to unforeseen moment.

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