In my short years that I have lived out so far, through the ever shifting environments and faces, the good moments and the bad, one thing has always stayed in its place. Never moving, never shifting. This is change. Change is terrifying, like a shadow lurking in the dark, like the noise heard at night, like the creak of stairs for something unexpected. Like the start of something new, like the ending of something old, it’s terrifying. Could change be the really good novel with a horrendous cover? Could change be the awful novel with a dazzling cover? Will change be this side of the coin or that side? Doesn’t it depend how you place your fingers on the coin, how many flips per second per height per any other formula you can think of? But change can’t be a formula. It’s not straight, not neat, not perfect. It’s messy and hard to accept. It’s like a blanket you’ve clung to for so long, only to know it’s time to let go, time to move on, time to change. The seasons change. From a mix of cool blue and white to warm orange and red to green and yellow to just green. Just green. But even in green there is change. You change from light to dark, add some light add some dark. Paint a sunny sky, paint a thunderstorm. The years change. From young to old. From old to wise. From wise to young. Does that mean it’s always repeated? That it will never cease to exist? Even when one life ends another begins. Even when one flower gets trampled on another is pushing its way up to the pulsing light of something brighter. Even when the lights go off, the city lights up. Even when the stairs creak, the memories play. Even when the shadow exists, somewhere there is a room with brightness shining through silent sleeping windows at the break of the dawn-in the montage of oranges and reds and blues and purples and then there is change. Change. Change is the tide from low to high. Change is the beating dessert to the cool ocean. Change is everywhere. In each inhale and exhale. In every step. Change. Change is terrifying. Like the shadow you thought you saw, like the non-existent noise you would later tell yourself was nothing, like the old stairs groaning under the weight of slumbering dreams and gasping nightmares. Certainly change is the beginning, the middle, and the end. But not particularly in that order. Look for change and you’ll never find it, turn away and suddenly everything that was anything is now different. Do you see? Never mind, too late too slow, it has already changed.