When people talk about diets, they often speak not just of reaching a goal but of keeping it off as if the success is already slipping, already plotting its return. The phrase carries a ghost note of failure inside the accomplishment, a subtle wariness in the journey of self-betterment. It implies the weight was never truly gone, only exiled, waiting at the border with a suitcase full of cravings. Makes me wonder on the idea of “changing your mind.” As if mind was a fixed instrument with replaceable parts. Is it not more like improvisation – fluid, ungraspable, composed of shifting motifs? There is no clean scalpel to reshape it from within, no place from which the self performs surgery on itself except through something final and irreversible, death or lobotomy, which isn’t transformation so much as silence imposed. Real change, if it exists at all, lives like a surprising chord inserted not to resolve but to awaken. A strange note that doesn’t belong, and yet, without it, the song would mean nothing.