I said, "I don't like any kind of change."
My parents chuckled in my face and told me that people who don't like change don't move away. Ever. And I like leaving. Yet, I stew over nostalgia. I crave looking back. I relish in remembering. Thinking about the small distinctions of a person, then and now. Me, 2.0. 2.1. The newer version. The broken version. The confident version. The scared version.
I get weary over the thought about starting again. I get so excited over the idea of change that I paralyze the move. The fear contracts inside my arms, hands, legs and feet, like ivy that crawls up and adheres and tries to become permanent. Permanence. I don't have much of that. I don't understand it. I do see it on the faintest line on my forehead. I ask, "When are you going away? I'd like you to change please."
Before I make a leap, I calculate the amount of nicks I may get from a fall. After it seems that I always forget to count the blows because I'm usually wiping something brilliant off my face.
It's always just the before.
Not A Model asks: How do you deal well with change?