"Change Is Not an Event"

Be it by the process of growing up or just forgetting, in some way our magic spins away, shallowing the places inside where the extraordinary color of laughter hides. Sometimes, I think I hear my name whispered as a warning; only it is often behind me, or uttered like someone passing me by is urging me to change direction. On the coldest days, when the grey wind drapes the brittle world inside my head. I can hear the whispering tones of an unsettled audience, hushing one another in anticipation of my demise.