I always want to try to make films feel timeless, because one of

Hear now, O seekers of wisdom and memory, the words of Francis Lawrence, who declared: “I always want to try to make films feel timeless, because one of my biggest pet peeves is that there’s a movie you love, and then you revisit it twenty years later, you show your kid or something, and it’s like, ‘Oh my God!’ with hairstyles and clothing and all that kind of stuff.” Though spoken of cinema, his words resound with a lesson that extends far beyond the screen, into the very fabric of how men and women preserve their art, their legacy, and their truth.

In these words, we find the yearning for timelessness—that sacred quality that allows a work of creation to transcend the fleeting fashions of an age. To be timeless is to speak to the heart of humanity in a voice unshaken by the turning of years. The film that clings too closely to the ornaments of its own time—the hairstyles, the clothing, the temporary glamour—soon becomes a relic, a curiosity rather than a living work. But the film that reaches for essence, for universal truth, may endure and still inspire when centuries have passed.

The movie you loved in youth, Lawrence reminds us, can betray itself when you return with your child at your side, and its beauty is hidden beneath the dust of its fashions. What once stirred your soul now feels confined, imprisoned by the vanity of its moment. And yet, when a film—or any creation—is crafted with care for eternity, it welcomes both parent and child alike, binding generations in shared wonder. Such is the power of art that refuses to age.

Consider, O listener, the story of the Parthenon in Athens. Though its marble was cut in the fifth century before the birth of Christ, though its columns have weathered war, fire, and time, still it stands, and men gaze upon it with reverence. Its design, rooted not in the fashions of a season but in the eternal harmony of proportion, speaks across millennia. Compare this to the palaces of fleeting kings, adorned in the ornaments of their age, which crumble into obscurity when their style passes. The Parthenon endures because it was made to be timeless, just as Lawrence speaks of crafting films that transcend the fashions of their hour.

The meaning of Lawrence’s words is clear: do not anchor your work, your life, or your legacy in the shifting sands of fashion. What is admired today may be ridiculed tomorrow. Instead, seek the universal—the truths of love, courage, sacrifice, laughter, sorrow—that echo in every age. If you create, create for eternity. If you labor, labor for more than the applause of the moment. In this way, your work may remain fresh, powerful, and beloved, even as the years roll on.

The lesson, O child of tomorrow, is this: beware of chasing the vanity of the present. The hairstyles and clothing of today may amuse your children tomorrow. But the story you live, the values you embody, the art you share—if they are rooted in truth—will remain as vivid as the dawn. Do not live merely for fashion; live for meaning. Do not speak only to your peers; speak to humanity. Do not create for the applause of now, but for the reverence of those yet unborn.

Practical action follows: when you make—whether it be a film, a song, a book, or even the story of your life—ask yourself, will this matter in twenty years? Will it matter in a hundred? Strip away the temporary and leave what is eternal. Share with your child, or with the stranger who walks the earth long after you are gone, something that will still shine. For fashions fade, but truth endures.

Therefore, remember Lawrence’s wisdom: to seek timelessness is to seek immortality, not of the body, but of the spirit’s voice. Let your works, your words, your deeds be crafted with eternity in mind. For what is bound to time dies with time, but what is timeless walks with generations yet to come, unwearied, unbroken, ever alive.