change is the nextdoor neighbour that i seldom know. the one i’ll smile at, maybe give a wave, but we’ve lived together for decades and i still don’t know what she like, where she’s from, who she really is.
i catch a glimpse of her wherever i go. maybe i’m delusional insane, even.
change is the crossing of that quiet, self-propagating, liminal space between dimensions – not quite here but not quite there. i feel change’s presence in the cradle-like rocking of a rush hour train that brings me closer to grandma’s house, the wispy billows of smoke from yet another blown-out birthday candle, the weight being lifted off my shoulders as my raven dark locks fall to the ground. change is that disquieting feeling that grows—building and bubbling in my throat for weeks until it hits me like a crashing wave that things would never be the same again. change is that stunned, coldly numb sensation that left its trace by drawing a milky veil of otherness over my heart.
she’s a bit cruel, i think. everytime i settle down, change likes to keep me on my toes by pulling another string, playing another one of her jokes. you silly girl, she seems to tell me at every turn of the seasons, the time where life seems to become scrambled like a deck of cards. i could learn to make amends with change, but i’m too busy trying to stay afloat in a wave pool filled with her presence.
i’ll write this to myself, knowing that change is just around the corner. she’s probably mowing her lawn with a coy smile on her face, plotting our next interaction. if i crane my neck hard enough, maybe i can see her. if i concentrate hard in enough, maybe i can read her mind. if i try hard enough, maybe i can beg change to delay her visit, but i think i already know the answer.
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