by PA Davis
Change is a threshold to another world that we cross. Sometimes it creeps up, bursting into your routine with the abandon of a child’s prank. For good or bad, it’s on your doorstep and you can’t avoid its playful allure. Sometimes planned, self motivated, even controlled, change is a choice which is upon you.
And then there is change that seems to never come, the hope of a chance to change what you are and what you might become, a dream. This change looms, its mast pokes above the horizon but the hull of the ship stays just beyond your sight.
It invites you to see more, and then it strangles you and turns your edges sharp with anticipation. You wait, it seems to never come and it rapes your patience with its lack of forbearance.
Make it happen, you say. You do what you can, but you lack control of the final outcome, you lack the raw components, waiting for change, waiting for grass to grow. You struggle with something unseen, like in a dream; you’re running, confused and out of breath, and you’re searching for something, something just beyond your fingertips. You can smell it. You can taste its fragrance, and yet, you cannot see or feel it, or find it within your grasp.
Waiting for change is painful. Not like a puncture or a scrape. Something deep inside wrenches and torments you into a misery. But like a ballerina, change is a siren of the dance, a temptress enticing, luring you to search within the shadows of the wings, to come closer. She lives beyond a door and she beckons with her exotic charms, calling you to enter. And yet, the doors opening only lets out a tantalizing glimmer of light, of hope anticipated.
Some prefer the day-to-day routine, the continuity of sameness. For those there is comfort in knowing, controlling what comes next. Change to them is a serpent, unexpected, slithering beneath the waves. They wake each morning assured of what they are to do. No guessing at which corner to turn or fork to take. No frantic searching for a sign that provides a suggestion of fulfilled desire, and then fading like a mirage when approached.
For others, change is the fuel that fires the engine.
She asks me what is going to happen. When?
I search for answers, I connect the dots, but the image is incomplete. There are no more dots until the next page.
The siren’s dance is not yet complete.
I also did a Glossi magazine on this short – here’s the link: