There was once a forecast that didn’t predict rain, or snow, or hail the size of golf balls. It predicted updates. The meteorologists had given up on clouds. Clouds were amateurs. The real turbulence was human.
They called it the Climate of Change.
It arrived without thunder. No cavalry of lightning. No polite memo from the Department of Atmosphere. One morning everyone just woke up and noticed that the ground beneath their opinions had developed wheels.
For real.
In the old days, change was a new neighbor who moved in every few years. He brought a casserole. He knocked before entering. You could ask him about property values. Now change is a feral cat with a jetpack. It lands on your porch at 3:17 a.m., eats your goldfish, and reprograms your thermostat.
People tried to measure it.
Scientists placed instruments in universities and shopping malls. The instruments blinked and printed receipts that said: “EVERYTHING IS TRANSITIONING”. Nobody knew what that meant, but it sounded official. Congress held hearings. The hearings were immediately outdated.
A boy in Ohio updated his personality before breakfast. A woman in Nevada revised her entire belief system during a layover in Denver. By dinner, the definitions of breakfast, Nevada, and belief had also changed.
For real.
The elders formed committees dedicated to Yesterday. They met in well-lit rooms and attempted to staple the past to the present. The staples melted. They blamed humidity.
The young, meanwhile, treated identity like a wardrobe. Try this on. Donate that. Recycle. Upcycle. Freecycle. Unicycle. Stitch something fabulous out of whatever is left. They did not mourn the costume. They mourned boredom.
In the Climate of Change, permanence became a rumor. Institutions that once considered themselves granite discovered they were, in fact, gelatin. The markets twitched. The churches rebranded. The revolutionaries applied for sponsorships.
There were winners.
The adaptable thrived like weeds in a cracked sidewalk. They could photosynthesize under fluorescent light. They drank instability as if it were vitamin water. They didn’t ask what the rules were. They waited to see which rules would survive the week.
There were also those who longed for a thermostat.
They believed somewhere, surely, there must be a dial labeled “Normal.” If only the right person could twist it. They searched basements and ballot boxes. They found only wires.
For real.
Here’s the thing about the Climate of Change: it’s not hot or cold. It’s restless. The barometric pressure is ambition. The humidity is anxiety. The wind carries rumors instead of pollen.
No one stands still for long. Even statues develop opinions.
And yet, in small kitchens and on quiet sidewalks, people still sit. They still pour coffee. They still look at one another and attempt the old experiment of understanding. In those moments, the climate pauses, as if embarrassed.
Perhaps the Climate of Change is not a villain. Perhaps it’s a mirror tilted slightly forward. It shows us not who we were, but who we are becoming before we have finished becoming it.
There will be no final season. No gentle spring where everything makes sense again. The forecast will continue to say: Variable. Rapid. Uncertain.
And somewhere, someone will read it and shrug.
For real.
—P
Featured Artwork: Distort & T.Dee, “Climate of Change” mural, 180 10th St, Jersey City, NJ 07302
