The Light of Forever

I’m perched on a rooftop in a city that hums with life, its lights sprawling like a galaxy beneath me. The air smells of rain and street food, and somewhere nearby, music spills from an open window. I’ve seen countless cities rise and fall—mud huts to marble spires to these glittering towers—but this one feels alive in a way that stirs something in me. I don’t age. I don’t die. My body is as it was when I was twenty, centuries ago, maybe millennia. Time is a tapestry, and I’m a thread that never frays. But tonight, I’m not here to mourn that. Tonight, I’m here to remember why I keep going.

Immortality sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? The poets and philosophers I’ve known—hundreds of them, across deserts and oceans—would argue it’s a curse. They’d point to the losses, the way the world slips through your fingers like sand. And they’re not wrong. I’ve loved deeply, and I’ve lost every love to time’s relentless march. My first was Leigh, a weaver with eyes like dawn and a laugh that could chase away shadows. We built a life in a village by a river, and I thought it would last forever. But forever was only mine. Her hair grayed, her hands stilled, and I buried her under a willow, my heart breaking with every shovelful of earth.

There were others after Leigh. Lovers, spouses, fleeting flames. I stopped counting them long ago, not out of callousness but because the numbers blurred. Their names are a litany I can’t fully recite—Kate, Miren, Soren, countless more. I’ve had children, too, though their faces are harder to hold onto. A daughter who loved to dance. A son who dreamed of the stars. They grew old, or they fell in battles, or they simply drifted away, and I was left to carry their memories. The pain of loss is a constant companion, sharp and unyielding. I’ve tried to outrun it, swearing off love, sealing my heart like a vault. I’d wander alone, seeking thrills to fill the void—scaling unclimbable peaks, diving into seas where monsters lurked, fighting in wars for causes I barely grasped.

But loneliness is a heavier burden than loss. It’s a quiet ache, a hunger for connection that no adventure can sate. I’d find myself in a market, watching families barter and laugh, or in a library, hearing scholars debate, and I’d feel the pull of humanity. So I’d open my heart again, knowing the cost. I’d love, fiercely, because the alternative was a half-life, a shadow existence. Each time, I told myself I’d be wiser, that I’d savor the moments without dreading the end. And sometimes, I succeeded.

I’ve lived through ages—bronze to iron to silicon. I’ve been a healer, a rebel, a teacher, a thief. Excitement drove me at first. I craved the new, the unknown. I sailed to continents where the air tasted of spice, built machines that changed the world, stood at the heart of revolutions. But the more I saw, the more I feared the toll. Every thrill faded, every victory rang hollow. I began to shy from risks, hiding in quiet corners of the world—a monk in a mountain temple, a hermit in a forest deep. Fear of pain, of repetition, kept me there. But curiosity, that stubborn spark, always drew me back. I’d step into the world again, chasing a new idea, a new face, a new hope.

What’s the value of an ending? Mortals find purpose in their brevity. Their lives are candles, bright and fleeting, and they burn with intention. I have no such limit, no frame to give my days shape. My creations—paintings, songs, cities—crumble or fade. My knowledge grows, but there’s always more to learn, no summit to rest upon. Love, though, love is different. It’s the one thing that doesn’t diminish, no matter how many times I lose it. Each love is a world unto itself, a universe of moments that time can’t erase. I carry Leigh’s laugh, Kate’s gentle touch, Miren’s courage. They’re not gone, not really. They’re part of me, woven into the endless thread of my life.

I used to think immortality was a burden, a sentence to endure. But I’ve begun to see it differently. Yes, the losses hurt, and they always will. But they’re proof I’ve lived, proof I’ve dared to care. I could stop, could retreat into solitude forever, but that would be a betrayal of every love I’ve known. Instead, I choose to keep going, to seek out the next spark, the next story. I’ve learned to find joy in the small things—a stranger’s kindness, a child’s wonder, the way rain paints a city street. These are my rebellion against eternity’s weight, my way of saying yes to a world that keeps turning.

Tonight, I’m watching this city, and I’m thinking of joining it. There’s a woman in the café below, sketching in a notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration. She reminds me of someone—maybe Leigh, maybe no one. I could walk down, strike up a conversation, start something new. It might end in pain, but it might also end in laughter, in shared dreams, in a moment that makes forever feel worthwhile. I’m not naïve. I know the cycle—love, loss, loneliness, love again. But I’m not afraid of it anymore. Each cycle is a chance to grow, to carry more light into the vastness of my years.

The stars are coming out now, pricking the velvet sky. They’re the same stars I saw when I was a boy, when Leigh was alive, when the world was young. They don’t judge me for my endlessness, and neither do I. I’ll keep living, keep loving, keep hoping. Because even without an ending, I can write my own beginnings. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.