Mutable
I am not quite sure how it happened, but...
The most monumental changes happen like the quietest of trickles. I want to tie a newborn to a chair, point a camera at it for 90 years and see exactly how people trickle from life to death. Fast forward jerkily through the minutiae of minutes, as the subject lurches in tick-tock epilepsy. Evolution's missing link? The whole of my life is a series of missing links, peppered scantily with disembodied, discontinuous states of being, where I've leaped and bounded from perambulator to pre-school to philosophy degree in three flicks of a photo album. Before I know it, I'll have leapt blithely through paycheck to pensioner, and then I'll be launched off the cliffs into nigrescent oblivion.
I'll see many autumns squeak imperceptibly into winters without my realizing, and one day life will leave me in the dust.
Change.
Change! If only faces were made of clay, and I was the divine sculptor! I find it simply astounding that I could reach over and make the most miniscule of tweaks to a familiar face, once a day for several years, until I've turned Joanne into Jessica, and no one has noticed.