Things of this world are in so constant a flux, that nothing

Host: The evening was molten gold, the sun sinking behind the skyscrapers like a slow confession. The city’s heartbeat — distant sirens, fluttering lights, a subway rumble — moved beneath the surface like a restless tide.

Through the wide windows of a half-empty art gallery, the world outside shimmered in glass reflections — people moving, leaves spinning, shadows stretching, time slipping quietly between frames.

Jack leaned against the white wall, his hands in his pockets, grey eyes tracing the brushstrokes of an unfinished painting — a swirl of blue and ochre, a blur of faces dissolving into motion.

Jeeny stood beside him, her dark hair catching the amber light, her expression pensive, as if she were listening to something only silence could say.

Jeeny: “You can almost feel it — the movement inside the stillness. Like the painting’s trying to breathe.”

Jack: “Or drown.”

Jeeny: “You always see the tragedy first.”

Jack: “Because it’s honest. Beauty fades, Jeeny. Paint dries, people change, everything falls apart eventually. Locke was right — ‘Things of this world are in so constant a flux, that nothing remains long in the same state.’”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a curse.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? How do you build anything when the ground keeps moving?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the movement is the ground.”

Host: A soft humming from the lights filled the pause between them, that quiet electric sound of the present moment stretching thin before becoming memory.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve made peace with impermanence.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve just stopped pretending permanence exists.”

Jack: “You don’t miss it? The idea of something that lasts?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But maybe that’s the mistake — thinking love, or success, or even identity should stand still. Maybe we’re not supposed to keep things, Jack. We’re supposed to flow with them.”

Jack: “Flow?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like a river. It doesn’t mourn the water it’s lost; it becomes the water ahead.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But tell that to someone who’s lost everything. A job, a home, a person. Tell them to flow.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m one of them.”

Host: The air between them shifted. A subtle gravity. Her eyes softened, filled with something heavy, like the past returning quietly to watch.

Jack: “What did you lose?”

Jeeny: “My certainty. My version of forever.”

Jack: “That sounds abstract.”

Jeeny: “It was a marriage.”

Host: Her words landed gently, but they carried the echo of something broken — not bitterness, but the quiet dignity of acceptance.

Jack: “I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “You don’t talk about endings until you’ve made peace with them. Otherwise, they still own you.”

Jack: “And you have?”

Jeeny: “I’m learning. Every day. That the trick isn’t holding on. It’s knowing what to release before it rots in your hands.”

Jack: “So you’re saying Locke wasn’t warning us — he was preparing us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Change isn’t betrayal. It’s biology.”

Host: The light from the window began to dim, shadows stretching long across the floor. The painting in front of them — once vivid — now looked like memory fading into dusk.

Jack: “You know, I hate that word — flux. Sounds like disorder.”

Jeeny: “Because you want the world to behave.”

Jack: “I want it to be dependable.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll spend your life angry at gravity.”

Jack: “Maybe I already am.”

Jeeny: “You can’t fight change, Jack. You can only dance with it.”

Jack: “I don’t dance.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your first mistake.”

Host: Her laugh — low, genuine — broke through the tension, rippling the air like sunlight on broken glass.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? People don’t really fear change. They fear being forgotten in the process.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. Because when everything’s moving, you wonder if anything you built mattered.”

Jack: “And does it?”

Jeeny: “Only if you let it move through others. Legacy isn’t what stays; it’s what continues.”

Jack: “That sounds like something you’d tell a dying man.”

Jeeny: “Or someone too scared to start living again.”

Host: The city outside flickered — windows lighting, cars flashing, voices rising — the great chorus of flux John Locke had written about centuries ago, still performing its unending symphony.

Jack: “You think there’s peace in constant change?”

Jeeny: “No peace. But maybe clarity. If everything shifts, then nothing owns you forever — not pain, not failure, not even grief.”

Jack: “And love?”

Jeeny: “Especially love. It doesn’t die, Jack. It evolves.”

Jack: “Into what?”

Jeeny: “Into understanding. Into forgiveness.”

Host: Her words lingered, quiet and luminous, like dust suspended in a shaft of light.

Jack: “You know, I envy you. You make transience sound… gentle.”

Jeeny: “It’s not gentle. It’s merciful. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “How so?”

Jeeny: “Gentleness wants to comfort you. Mercy wants to free you.”

Host: He nodded slowly, the lines of his face softening, as if something ancient and stubborn inside him had finally begun to bend.

Jack: “So the point isn’t to resist the flux, but to participate in it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To live like you’re part of the tide, not stranded on the shore.”

Jack: “Then maybe change isn’t loss at all — maybe it’s continuation disguised as chaos.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world never ends, Jack. It just rearranges itself.”

Host: The lights in the gallery flickered off one by one, leaving them in a half-dark glow. The painting before them — once still — now seemed almost alive in the shadows, its colors breathing softly, as if acknowledging them.

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? We spend our lives fearing the very thing that keeps the universe alive.”

Jack: “Flux.”

Jeeny: “Change.”

Jack: “And what about us?”

Jeeny: “We’ll change too. And if we’re lucky, we’ll notice.”

Host: They walked toward the exit, their footsteps echoing through the empty space, their voices low, their silence honest.

Outside, the wind had picked up — cool, restless, alive. It lifted Jeeny’s hair, caught Jack’s collar, and wrapped around them both like a moving truth.

Host: The city lights shimmered across the river, reflecting the endless motion of time — waves folding, currents shifting, moments dissolving into one another.

And there, standing on the edge of night, Jack finally whispered —

Jack: “You were right. Nothing stays.”

Jeeny: “No. But look around. Everything continues.”

Host: She smiled, and for a fleeting instant, the universe paused — not to stay, but to acknowledge its own motion.

Then the wind moved again, carrying their shadows forward, gently, inevitably —
into the next state of being,
into the next version of forever.