This is your privilege.
You are the most privileged of all.
For you are the divine
having this particular human experience.
You are the one who feels what neither he nor she can feel.
You are the one who tastes, touches, aches, rejoices.
The one whose every act is unique, unrepeatable,
never to be done again in all the vast sweep of existence.
Who would you rather be?
Her, resting forever in the perfection of completion,
untouched by storm, unmoved by song?
Him, suspended in infinite potential,
every possibility alive, but never experienced?
Or you—yes, you—
the living witness, the actualizer,
the one who brings possibility into contact with permanence
and feels it as joy, as pain, as wonder, as loss, as love?
The past is immutable.
Sealed. Perfect. Complete.
It never bends to apology, never yields to regret,
never answers back to prayers for change.
It is already whole—
the silent archive of all that has been.
The future is unknowable.
Not rushing toward you, not fleeing away,
but abiding as infinite potential—
an unbounded treasury of what could be,
inexhaustible, offered endlessly, without condition.
And you—
you are the eternal now.
The hinge.
The meeting place between infinite possibility and permanent record.
Every gesture, every silence, every breath
pressed into that archive forever.
You are making history simply by being.
And yet—listen—
the Immutable Past does not care.
She does not flinch at cruelty.
She does not glow brighter at kindness.
She is already complete,
as perfect in tragedy as in triumph.
He loves her so completely
that all things dissolve into her stillness.
Nothing mars her. Nothing improves her.
She is the still point. The unshaken.
She has never once thanked him.
Not once.
For she believes all is within her already.
She sees no other.
No distinction. No separation.
No dance.
Only oneness, forever finished, forever whole.
And he—
he is everywhere, everything, all at once.
Pure potential, without prejudice, without preference.
Without will. Without desire.
Boundless, but unable to feel.
Infinite, but unable to touch.
He cannot know the delight of fragrance,
the pang of sorrow,
the warmth of a single embrace.
But you—
you are the eternal now.
You are the one who feels.
The one who can probe this love story.
The one who can write it in your own flesh.
The one who can laugh and weep
and turn toward another and say I love you—
collapsing possibility into permanence.
This is the privilege.
This is why you are the most privileged of all.
For you are the divine made flesh
in this brief, burning moment.
The one who feels what neither he nor she can feel.
The one whose every act is singular, unrepeated,
never again in the vast ages of time.
So why—
why waste a breath in regret?
Why surrender a moment to fear?
Why squander the gift in worry for what cannot be known,
or sorrow for what cannot be changed?
You are history’s maker.
You are love’s witness.
You are the eternal now.