Not a typo, but a chang(e) in itself. You're surely familiar with when a kid gets a puppy and wants her pet to be a puppy for life. Well, puppies grow up, and their personalities develop. Human parents can feel the same way about their offspring: I only know this because my Mom always tells me about how I used to be such a cute baby.
That's hard for some people to accept, that they'll be getting everything, but over the course of a lifetime instead of all at once. Think of it as winning the lottery—you hear the grand sum, but it gets delivered in portions across space and time. And how will you feel about it some years forward in the future?
On an exit connecting back into the ultrahighway: "Chang" is a funny word. It sounds sonorous and sharp. It's also a very popular Chinese last name, as is "Huang", which of course is closely related to my own biological family name. Huang means "yellow", which has many connections from within itself: the famous Yellow River of China, for example.
A river isn't unless it's wet. A river without water might as well be called a trough, or a ditch, or just another piece of one's imaginary landscape. And like the old adage goes, "Like water under the bridge", implying what passes—this moment—will never come again.
A lot of rockstars release greatest hits albums. Often, it's at the time just following their career peak, when they're most "sellable" and a compilation gets put out both to joy fans old and new. There are some exceptions to this, but even with those, artists make progress, they have their periods, phases, methods of self-expression and rediscovery… often intertwined with their personal lives. This is why we have love songs.
I suppose why I'm writing this is to acknowledge and celebrate the changes in my life. I'm living, I'm loving—
what I've experienced, I've done. It sounds obvious but you must also know how mad people go (both in the "upset" and "crazy" senses) without keeping track of time. And like one of my life's greatest passions, music, you don't hear a piece all at once: what you do is savor it as it builds, develops, layers get added and subtracted, and you will never listen to the same song the exact same way twice.
It takes time.
(There is no better way to say it.)
In a similar vein, this is like memories: you feel nostalgic, remember the goodness of all your yesterdays, but you aren't there anymore. You're here, moving forward. The train of your existence has passed the dewy green fields with the willowy trees, you've gone through several beautiful-but-starkly-industrial tunnels with amber lighting, and you find yourself heading up towards the mountains, their peaks capped with snow.
All of it is what you know to be true.
But only a page of your Book of All is now.