Those we see, those we grow up beside, those for whom love is born simply through the texture of shared days—one day they leave us. And when that day comes, when we realize we shall never meet them again in this life, we are seized by such anguish! This cry of the heart for love—if we could not pour that love into another soul, if life offered us no one else to love, could we endure the torment of separation from the beloved? Could we even survive? Love is an eternal essence. It has no birth, no death. Since the beginning of creation until now, the total measure of love in this world remains unchanged. It is our hearts, our consciousness, that receive love or turn away from it. When love awakens in us, we are merely awakening what already lay dormant there. When someone leaves our life, that love returns to its sleeping state. The arrival of another can rouse it again. Or perhaps no new soul enters our days, yet the love we held for one already gone can grow manifold. We often see it: after a husband's untimely death, a mother's love for her child becomes fiercer than before. After losing a child, a mother clings more desperately to those around her. Deprived of anyone to love, a person descends into madness. Yet sadder still than one who receives no love is the soul incapable of loving. Love does not perish—only transfers. When love falls asleep, we convince ourselves: "I have lost my capacity to love. Never again can I love as I did. No one will ever stir my heart again. How can I live in such lovelessness?" But this is not the truth. Love cannot be contained in the frame of two, or any number. Unaware, our love migrates from one soul to another. The reawakening of love in our hearts is a perfectly ordinary psychological phenomenon. From this transfer of love, our hearts undergo profound change. We begin to believe: Yes, this person is exactly as I wished them to be. Or: The one who departed has returned to me in this one. Or: Never has anyone loved me as tenderly. Or: I shall keep my love alive within this new love. Or: Those days that are gone can never return—but does that mean I can never live fully again?... and so forth. Yet there was a time when no amount of persuasion could have convinced us of such simple, natural truths.
# Eternal Being The question of what remains, of what persists beyond the reach of time—this is perhaps the deepest inquiry a thinking mind can undertake. We are creatures suspended between becoming and being, forever caught in the paradox of change and constancy. Yet something within us rebels against the notion of absolute flux, of a world where nothing holds true, where meaning is perpetually dissolved before it can crystallize. The ancients spoke of an eternal substance, an unchanging reality beneath the ceaseless motion of phenomena. They were right to search for it, though perhaps they sought it in the wrong places—in the realm of abstract forms, in the immutable laws of physics, in the transcendent realm beyond this world. But what if the eternal is not distant? What if it dwells in the very heart of transience? Consider a moment of genuine insight—when the mind, for an instant, grasps a truth so fundamental that time seems to fall away. In that crystalline moment, past and future collapse into an eternal now. You are no longer bound to the sequence of seconds; you touch something that does not age, does not diminish, does not pass. This is not an escape from time but a penetration into its innermost nature. Every act of love, every creation born from the soul's deepest stirring, every moment when we step outside ourselves and commune with something greater—these are brushes with the eternal. They do not last in the way we wish them to. The moment passes, and we return to our ordinary suffering, our petty anxieties. Yet we are forever changed by having touched it. The eternal, once encountered, leaves an indelible mark upon the temporal. Perhaps this is what it means to be human: to be the meeting place of two infinities—the infinite stretch of time, and the infinite depth of the present moment. We are mortal beings who yearn for immortality, finite creatures who contain the infinite within our grasp, if only we knew how to hold it. The body ages. The mind weakens. Empires crumble and are forgotten. All things pass into dust. Yet the questions we ask, the love we give, the beauty we recognize—these do not belong entirely to the realm of decay. They partake of something eternal, something that will not consent to be annihilated by death. This is not a consolation to cling to in despair. It is simply the truth: that we are not separate from the eternal, but woven into its very fabric. And in recognizing this, in learning to see through the veil of transience, we find not escape from life but a deeper immersion in it. We come home to ourselves.
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