For every minute, the future is becoming the past.

Host: The clock above the station platform ticked with indifferent rhythm, each second slicing a shadow into the cold dawn air. The mist curled like memory around the rails, and the first train of the morning whispered somewhere in the distance. Jack stood beneath a flickering lamp, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the departing horizon. Beside him, Jeeny sat on an old wooden bench, her breath visible in the chill, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the metal armrest.

The station felt like a threshold — a place where time hesitated, where tomorrow and yesterday brushed shoulders without speaking.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We’re all just… sitting here, waiting for something. But every minute we wait, that something becomes the past.”

Jack: “You mean Thor Heyerdahl’s line — ‘For every minute, the future is becoming the past.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It feels so… inevitable. Like we’re constantly losing what we haven’t even lived yet.”

Host: The train lights glimmered in the distance, two silver eyes approaching through the fog. The platform clock clicked again — sharp, unforgiving.

Jack: “You make it sound like a tragedy, Jeeny. But it’s just physics. Time moves forward, and we move with it. Nothing to mourn there.”

Jeeny: “You call it forward… I call it disappearing. Isn’t it sad that even our dreams, before they’re lived, start decaying the moment we imagine them?”

Jack: “That’s poetry, not truth. The future doesn’t decay. It just becomes data, events, history — the only thing real enough to remember. Emotion may not last, but facts do.”

Jeeny: “Facts? Like the dates of wars, the statistics of disasters? Those are just bones. What about the breath, the hope, the fear that filled those moments? That’s what time devours first.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, lifting dust and leaves, the sound echoing against the iron beams. For a moment, their faces were framed by the orange flicker of a passing signal light — his eyes cold, hers glowing with sad conviction.

Jack: “So what then? Should we fear every minute? Try to hold it still with sentiment? That’s a losing game. The Romans didn’t stop the hours with prayers; they built roads that still stand today. That’s how you fight time — with structure, not feeling.”

Jeeny: “And yet their empire fell. Their roads became ruins. Even stone turns to dust, Jack. What’s left isn’t the architecture, it’s the stories people still tell. That’s the heart outliving the clock.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from anger, but from the fragile honesty of belief. Jack looked at her — a brief flicker of softness behind his guarded stare, as if she’d touched an old wound he refused to name.

Jack: “You talk like time has a soul. It doesn’t. It’s just motion. We’re the ones giving it meaning, trying to negotiate with the inevitable. The future becomes the past because it has to. Otherwise nothing would ever happen.”

Jeeny: “But maybe it’s not about happening, Jack. Maybe it’s about being — about feeling the moment before it’s gone, instead of analyzing it after. The future becomes the past, yes, but only the present gives it life.”

Jack: “And what do you do with that life when it’s over? When your moment fades, what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Memory. Connection. Love. Even when the future becomes the past, what we’ve felt stays alive inside us.”

Host: The train roared in now, its wheels screaming against the rails, its windows glowing like tiny suns. The noise filled the space between them, like a pause in the conversation that neither wanted to end.

As the doors opened, warm air spilled out, carrying the scent of coffee, iron, and wet cloth.

Jack: “You know, I once read that Heyerdahl crossed the Pacific Ocean on a raft, proving ancient people could have done the same. Maybe he understood this quote better than both of us. He lived it — turning the unknown future into history with each wave.”

Jeeny: “Exactly, Jack. He lived it. That’s what I mean. He wasn’t just watching time pass — he was writing it with his hands. Every minute that became the past was filled with purpose.”

Jack: “Or risk. You romanticize it. He could have died out there. The future doesn’t owe us meaning — it just arrives, and we decide whether to move or drown.”

Jeeny: “But he chose to move, didn’t he? That’s the point. He didn’t wait for tomorrow to be kind. He gave his present to the waves, and that’s why he left something behind. That’s how you slow the disappearance — by living fully in the tide of it.”

Host: The train whistled again. Passengers shuffled, their faces dimly lit by the pale bulbs. Somewhere, a child laughed; somewhere else, an old man sighed, adjusting the strap of his worn suitcase.

Jack: “You think we can really live like that? Every second as if it’s leaving us?”

Jeeny: “Not every second. Just the important ones. The ones we’d regret losing if we blinked.”

Jack: “Sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But so is regret.”

Host: The silence that followed was almost holy. Steam rose from the train, curling around their faces like a veil. The station light flickered once, then steadied.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought of time as a predator — always chasing, always devouring. But you… you make it sound like a dance partner.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. It hunts, but it also teaches you to move. You just have to decide whether you’re running or dancing.”

Jack: “And what if we’re too afraid to move at all?”

Jeeny: “Then we become the past before the minute does.”

Host: Jack’s breath caught — just for a second. The whistle screamed again, and the door to the train began to close. Jeeny stood, her eyes steady, her hands trembling slightly, caught between leaving and staying.

Jack: “Where are you going?”

Jeeny: “Nowhere. Everywhere. Just… forward.”

Host: Her smile was faint, but real — the kind that hurt and healed at once. Jack looked at her, and something in his chest finally yielded.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe the future becomes the past, but it’s what we do in between that decides whether it was worth it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s where we live — in the minute that’s still becoming.”

Host: The train began to move, slowly at first, then faster. The light from the windows slid across Jack’s face, painting him in amber, then darkness, then amber again — like time breathing through motion.

He didn’t speak again. Neither did she. They just stood, watching, as the future rolled away — one minute, one memory, at a time.

The station fell silent once more, except for the clock, still ticking, still turning.

And for a moment, it almost felt as if time itself had paused — not to stop, but simply to listen.