Pandora's Box

Picture: J W Waterhouse

A secret prophecy.

Hidden. Locked. Safe.

In the deepest, darkest recesses of mind and heart.

A prophecy as unchangeable as – what? What, after all, is permanent, unshakeable, always itself…? Once, she would have said as unchangeable as love; now, it’s a word that doesn’t come to mind immediately.

Things change. Things alter. Things don’t stay the same.

They tell us and tell us – and tell us some more. The collected wisdom of the ages, the old stories, the authentic myths and fairytales, the epics themselves. They don't whisper it, or speak in riddles. They give it to us straight and unvarnished: things change.

But in our youth, our arrogance, our naiveté, we choose not to listen, to laugh in the face of impermanence, to challenge change itself. Because love knows itself to be immortal, and lovers acknowledge no weakness.

“THIS is forever." "THIS is different." "WE are different." "We KNOW.”

We stand steadfast in our convictions and we enjoy the sheer, heady, grand joy of what we know. (Or think we know.)

And then, time shifts.

One day, the secret prophecy is there. It doesn’t appear suddenly, abruptly. There is no jolt, no shocking assault on the senses. It’s just…there. As if it’s always been there.

It pulsates, insistent in its steady, constant rhythm, keeping pace with the beating of her heart.

She notices it as the days slip by languorously, lazily. It's insidious, omnipresent, niggling.

She contemplates it, this foreign entity within herself. She considers it from a distance, impartially. This secret prophecy seems to be an unknown quantity. Which is impossible. There can be no unknowns – after all, she is secure in her knowledge, which is complete. She *knows*. The prophecy is nothing, it is simply illusory. It’s superstition, lingering debris from years gone by, the wreckage of old notions that has buried itself into her being. Ignore it, she commands herself. It is nothing.

It is no use, though.

The prophecy will not, *cannot* be denied. It is as undeniable as – well, as love.

It beats, day and night. Like a dripping tap, it echoes in her mind until it is as if there are only two things in the world: the secret prophecy, and herself.

She concedes defeat – that too, was foretold. It was destined.

For you see, change is an impetus, an unstoppable force that cannot be staved off, cannot be stopped, cannot be reversed.

When it meets an immovable object, like love, the object realizes that it isn’t really immovable after all. Change is too strong, too hell-bent on having its way. And it always does.

She relents, she weakens, and the defenses come crashing down. The secret prophecy cracks open, and the glow of the unknown turns into the darkness of knowledge.

Where did love go? How did she miss it walking out of the door, bag and baggage? How did forever turn into a phase?

She is left, bereft. Her heart is not broken; in fact, she can't feel her heart at all. She grasps at all she used to know, trying desperately to recapture what she once felt – but memory is already working its deceptive enchantment. She remembers, certainly, that she was in love, a tugging, bone-deep, soul-wrenching, passionate sort of love – but she knows it only theoretically. She understands the surface meaning of the words, but she cannot reach the deeper meaning that lies within. Love has left the building, and she is all alone.

She stands in the ruins of yesterday's knowledge; all is broken, all is lost. Today is bleak; tomorrow, impossible.

Change has been here, too.

Where will it go next?