How possible really is change ?

Photographs, smiles spread in an instant, dead before the next. But the mourning eyes of the next decades gallery swiper feels the instant’s graze so profoundly that it might have been half her lifetime, for at that older age it all seems to have flew by, away, that fast anyway. Before the panic moulds and fires as tangible punches, lower your lids against the sheet of tears and open the door against its loosening hinges, fall down and cling yourself within the tangles of one thousand memory lanes...

See, it wasn’t so good then either. It’s a comfortable feeling until you no longer see the smiles in the pictures as anything but a quirk in another in another dull, linear life. You stare and think that, all this time, I really never changed, and that it’s not another life but the same one exhaling out of you now. So you sing ‘tomorrow, tomorrow baby from tomorrow morning there will be change, I will change’, except the song has no beat or rythme, it’s disingenuous with a undertone of mocking - maybe by your past self, or future, or both - but you pretend to ignore it because today is not glorious and grandeur tomorrow... right ? Right? Sorry, because today is tomorrow and after tomorrow will be yesterday. Yesterday, baby, yesterday, will you breathe back into to me ? Clock, could you click backwards for me? Tock, tick, freeze.