Quote:Change is the most paradoxical constant of human existence. We resist it, fear it, and pretend we can outsmart it — yet the moment it appears utterly impossible, it begins gathering its unstoppable force.

The phrase, “When change looks impossible, it becomes inevitable,” captures an historical, psychological, and even spiritual truth: transformation does not arise from comfort or consent, but from tension and exhaustion. Systems — whether political, social, or personal — do not collapse because they are weak; they collapse because they have become too rigid to bend.

Every entrenched order insists it will last forever. Pharaohs built pyramids to defy time; emperors carved their names in stone; corporations and governments surround themselves with bureaucracy and rhetoric to simulate permanence. Yet the very structures built to prevent change become the incubators of it. When an institution spends all its energy defending itself from evolution, it hollows out from within. The appearance of stability becomes the mask of decay.
History teaches this repeatedly. The French monarchy before 1789 appeared unshakeable, supported by divine right, noble privilege, and military might. Yet it was precisely at the point, when reform seemed impossible, that revolution became inevitable.

The same pattern holds in every age: when dialogue and adaptation are refused, change no longer negotiates — it erupts. John F. Kennedy understood this when he warned, “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible, will make violent revolution inevitable.” The energy that might have gone into gradual improvement transforms into the energy of collapse.

On a personal level, the impossibility of change often marks the turning point of transformation. A person trapped in addiction, stagnation, or despair rarely changes when things are tolerable. Change occurs when one reaches what the ancients called metanoia — the long, dark tea time of the soul, as Douglas Adams called it.

At that moment, the illusion of control disintegrates, and something new is forced into being. The caterpillar’s transformation into a butterfly is often romanticized, but in truth, it is a violent, liquefying process. What looks like death from the outside is, in fact, the birth of flight.

Psychologists call this the threshold effect: change seems impossible until the old structure can no longer sustain itself. People cling to unhealthy relationships, failing careers, or destructive habits not because they want pain, but because familiarity feels safer than the unknown.

The impossible becomes inevitable only when the cost of staying the same exceeds the terror of transformation.

Civilizations follow a similar arc. The historian Arnold Toynbee observed that societies rise, not because of their wealth or power, but because of their creative response to challenge. When creativity gives way to conformity, decline sets in. The Roman Empire, Victorian Britain, and Soviet Union all fell into the same trap — mistaking temporary dominance for eternal truth. When they could no longer imagine alternatives, they made collapse their only remaining option.

In our own age, technological acceleration and environmental strain suggest that we stand on the edge of another such inflection point. Political polarization, economic inequality, and ecological collapse seem to form an immovable wall.

Yet history whispers the same lesson: when a society declares that meaningful change is impossible, it has already planted the seeds of its own transformation. The question is not if change will come, but how — through wisdom or through crisis.

There is a quiet but crucial moment before every transformation, when everything feels stuck — a psychological or historical stillness that feels eternal. Artists call it the creative void; mystics call it the dark night of the soul; revolutionaries call it the silence before the storm.

This stillness is deceptive. Beneath it, the old order is already dissolving. Victor Hugo’s observation, “Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time has come,” captures this perfectly. The world resists the new idea with all its might, not because it is weak, but because it senses the end of its reign.

This moment can also be the most hopeful. When change looks impossible, it is often because we are still using the old vocabulary to describe a new reality. We demand that transformation look like improvement, when it actually looks like destruction. The crumbling of certainty is not the end of progress; it is the beginning of clarity.

Nature, unlike human institutions, never fears change. Forests burn so that new ecosystems can grow; rivers shift course to renew their vitality. In this light, human resistance to change looks like an act of arrogance — the refusal to participate in the same cycle that governs all life.

The wise cultures of the past understood this. The Stoics called it amor fati — love of fate — the willingness to embrace whatever comes, knowing that life itself is transformation.

When change seems impossible, it is not because the world has run out of possibilities, but because our imagination has. And imagination, once cornered, will always find a way out. History, psychology, and nature agree: the moment we declare “nothing can change” is the moment everything begins to.

And so it goes on a monsoon afternoon.

=====
I am torn over today’s cinematic theme, since there are some brilliant films on topic. Ultimately, I’ve chosen Koyaanisqatsi (1982), a true masterpiece of visual art, spanning eons and emotions without dialogue or narration. The unique and unforgettable score by Philip Glass runs the gamut from soaring exhilaration to utter despair in 7/8 time. This film sticks with you for decades. The perfect companion piece, for those double-feature nights, is 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Nuff sed about that one.