Death means change our clothes. Clothes become old, then time to

Host: The evening sun slid behind the Himalayan peaks, spilling its last rays of gold over a quiet mountain monastery. The wind was thin and cold, carrying the smell of juniper smoke and melted snow. Prayer flags fluttered gently along the cliffside, their colors faded but still alive with whispers of devotion.

Jack and Jeeny sat on a stone bench, overlooking the vast valley below, where the world seemed both infinite and distant. Between them, a small brass butter lamp flickered — its flame trembling in the wind, yet unextinguished.

On Jeeny’s phone glowed the quote from His Holiness the Dalai Lama:
“Death means change our clothes. Clothes become old, then time to come change. So this body become old, and then time come, take young body.”

Jack: (quietly, eyes fixed on the valley) “Change our clothes,” huh? That’s… poetic. But I can’t decide if it’s comforting or just denial dressed as wisdom.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe it’s both. But isn’t that the beauty of faith — it turns fear into language, and loss into metaphor?

Jack: Or it turns reality into fantasy. We die, Jeeny. Bodies rot. The mind flickers out. That’s not “changing clothes.” That’s the end of the wardrobe.

Jeeny: (turning to him) But what if the wardrobe itself is endless? What if consciousness doesn’t die — it just moves? Like energy shifting form. The Dalai Lama isn’t afraid of death because he sees it as continuation, not extinction.

Jack: (snorts softly) Energy, maybe. Consciousness? That’s just chemistry. Neurons firing in a skull. When the brain stops, so does the story.

Host: The wind rose, rustling the prayer flags above them. The light dimmed, and the first evening bell rang from the monastery tower — low, resonant, timeless. The air vibrated with its sound, as if the mountain itself was listening.

Jeeny: You sound like someone who’s never watched a soul leave a body.

Jack: (glances at her) And you sound like someone who’s seen too much of it.

Jeeny: I have. When my grandmother died, I held her hand. The moment her breath stopped, something… lifted. I swear, Jack, I could feel it. The air shifted — like a presence leaving, softly. That can’t be chemistry.

Jack: (voice low) It can. The human brain projects meaning onto anything it can’t understand. You felt grief, shock, and your mind gave that feeling a shape — something to hold on to. That’s what we do.

Jeeny: (shakes her head) Then why does every culture — every civilization, from Tibet to Egypt — speak of life after death? Are they all wrong? All delusional?

Jack: Maybe not delusional. Maybe just afraid. The afterlife is humanity’s oldest survival instinct — a way to make peace with the unbearable truth.

Host: The butter lamp flickered, throwing faint gold patterns on Jack’s face. His eyes, cold and gray, reflected the flame like shards of metal. Jeeny watched him in the light, her expression soft, as though pity and admiration mingled in her.

Jeeny: You talk about truth as if it’s only found in what can be measured. But truth can also live in what we feel.

Jack: Feelings aren’t facts.

Jeeny: No — but they’re real. The Dalai Lama didn’t mean physics when he said “change our clothes.” He meant something more… human. That life isn’t a linear prison; it’s a cycle. Birth, decay, rebirth — just like the seasons.

Jack: (dryly) So what, we’re eternal laundry?

Jeeny: (laughs softly) Maybe. Or maybe we’re light — passing through one body after another like sunlight through leaves. Each life, a different pattern of shadow and glow.

Jack: That’s a comforting illusion, Jeeny. But if it helps people face death, maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Jeeny: It’s not illusion. It’s perspective. If you see death as an end, you live with fear. If you see it as change, you live with grace.

Host: The sky turned indigo, and the first stars appeared, scattered like ancient dust over the vast darkness. The world below vanished into shadow. Only the mountains, silent and unmoved, remained like stone guardians between heaven and earth.

Jack: (leaning back, his voice quieter) You know, I watched my father die. He wasn’t peaceful. He didn’t smile. He looked terrified — like he was falling into something endless and cold. I still see that look sometimes. So forgive me if I don’t buy the “changing clothes” idea.

Jeeny: (gently) I’m sorry, Jack. Truly. But maybe your father was afraid because he’d never been taught to see death differently. Maybe if he had grown up with the idea of rebirth, he would’ve met it as a doorway, not a wall.

Jack: (bitterly) A doorway to what? Another life we don’t remember? Another struggle we can’t recall learning from? What’s the point if we just forget everything?

Jeeny: Maybe forgetting is mercy. The soul remembers what it needs — not what it doesn’t.

Jack: (half-smiling) That sounds like something a priest would say when they’ve run out of evidence.

Jeeny: Or something a poet would say when they’ve found enough faith.

Host: A gust of wind swept through, nearly extinguishing the lamp, but it held its flame, trembling, defiant. The two sat in silence, watching it — that tiny, fragile fire that refused to die.

Jeeny: You know, science itself admits energy can’t be destroyed — only transformed. So why not the energy that animates us? Why should consciousness be the only exception?

Jack: Because energy isn’t personality. When a fire burns out, its heat doesn’t become another fire. It just dissipates.

Jeeny: (leans in) But what if we’re not the fire — we’re the light it gives off? Light doesn’t die, Jack. It just travels farther than we can see.

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried something that made Jack’s chest tighten — not belief, but the ache of wanting to. He looked away toward the mountain silhouettes, where the wind howled like a thousand unseen lives whispering.

Jack: (after a long pause) So you really believe we come back? Different faces, different names, again and again?

Jeeny: I don’t just believe. I feel it. Haven’t you ever met someone and thought, “I’ve known you before”?

Jack: (chuckles) Déjà vu. Neural misfire.

Jeeny: Or maybe memory leaking through from another life. Maybe love is just souls recognizing each other — again and again.

Jack: That’s romantic. Dangerous, but romantic.

Jeeny: (smiling) Everything worth believing is dangerous.

Host: The night deepened, wrapping the mountains in a cloak of blue-black silence. The stars shimmered brighter, like tiny eyes opening across the sky.

Jack: (softly now) You think death is nothing to fear, but you still cry when someone dies, don’t you?

Jeeny: Of course. Rebirth doesn’t make loss easier. It just makes it meaningful. Death breaks us — but it also teaches us to love more deeply, because we know everything’s temporary.

Jack: (nods slowly) Temporary… maybe that’s the only truth I can believe in.

Jeeny: Then start there. Temporary doesn’t mean meaningless. It means precious.

Host: The lamp finally burned low, its flame shrinking to a red ember. Jeeny placed her hand over it, shielding it from the wind. Jack watched her — her face calm, her eyes reflecting starlight, her gesture tender as though protecting something sacred.

Jack: You know, Jeeny, maybe you’re right. Maybe “changing clothes” isn’t about life after death. Maybe it’s about every change — every ending we survive. Every time we outgrow who we were.

Jeeny: (smiling gently) Yes. Maybe the Dalai Lama was never just talking about dying. Maybe he meant we’re always shedding — pain, pride, fear — until what’s left is light enough to move on.

Jack: (whispering) Changing clothes of the soul.

Jeeny: Exactly.

Host: A faint chant rose from the monastery — deep, rhythmic, ancient. It drifted through the cold air like a prayer for all things mortal and all things eternal.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their breath rising like ghosts of warmth into the night.

The lamp flame died at last — but the stars, infinite and bright, burned on.

Host: And in that shared silence, they understood: death is not the end of the fire — only the passing of the torch.