Point at anything.
It's already changing.

Look closely at anything you think of as solid. Your body is replacing itself cell by cell. A feeling you'd call “my mood” is a shifting weather system, never the same two minutes running. Even the sense of being a fixed “you” is, on inspection, a stream of thoughts and perceptions with no unchanging thing behind it — which is why impermanence leads straight into no-self. Impermanence is one of the three marks of existence, alongside dukkha (unsatisfactoriness) and anatta (no-self). The three hang together: because everything changes, nothing changing can fully satisfy, and there's no permanent self standing outside the flow.

Here's the move that makes impermanence liberating rather than bleak. The suffering isn't in the change itself — it's in our refusal of it. We reach for permanence where none was on offer: we want the good moment to stay, the loved one not to leave, the body not to age, the self-image to hold. Reality keeps moving; we keep gripping; and the gap between the two is the ache. As one traditional line has it, even the closest bonds shift over a lifetime — friend becomes stranger, stranger becomes friend — so fiercely clinging to any fixed arrangement is clinging to something that was never fixed.

The remedy isn't to care less. It's to hold differently — to meet each thing knowing it's in motion, which paradoxically lets you be more present to it, not less. You can love the cherry blossom fully because it falls. Seen this way, impermanence is also the ground of hope: no pain is permanent either, no situation final, no version of yourself the last word.