We are not victims of aging, sickness and death. These are part

Host: The sunset bled slowly into the horizon, staining the edge of the city in hues of amber and crimson. The air was still — one of those rare evenings when sound itself seemed to pause, as if holding its breath. On the rooftop of an old apartment building, Jack sat cross-legged on a weathered bench, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the railing, the wind tugging gently at her hair. Below them, the streets hummed faintly — cars, footsteps, distant laughter — the pulse of impermanent life.

Between them lay a small book, its pages open to a passage highlighted in faded yellow:
“We are not victims of aging, sickness and death. These are part of scenery, not the seer, who is immune to any form of change. This seer is the spirit, the expression of eternal being.” — Deepak Chopra.

Jack exhaled smoke into the dusk. “So,” he said quietly, “you really believe that?”

Jeeny: [smiling softly] “It’s not about belief. It’s about remembering.”

Jack: “Remembering what?”

Jeeny: “That we aren’t the things that break. We’re the ones who watch them break.”

Jack: “That’s convenient metaphysics. You say the body’s not you, the pain’s not you, the loss isn’t you — and poof, you’re free.”

Jeeny: “Not free. Aware. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Awareness doesn’t make grief lighter. It just makes you lucid enough to feel every ounce of it.”

Jeeny: [turning toward him] “Maybe that’s the point. The spirit isn’t numb, Jack. It feels — but it doesn’t drown.”

Host: The light shifted. The city’s glow crept upward, replacing the sun’s warmth with the cold shimmer of electricity. The world below looked busy and small — a restless play beneath an infinite ceiling.

Jack flicked the ash from his cigarette.

Jack: “So, we’re all immortal souls watching ourselves decay. Comforting, if you squint.”

Jeeny: “You always translate wonder into sarcasm.”

Jack: “And you translate pain into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Because both are true. You’re the decay and the divine. You’re the scenery and the seer.”

Host: The wind grew stronger, carrying the scent of rain and street food from somewhere below. Neon signs blinked awake, one by one.

Jeeny walked to the edge of the rooftop and looked down. “Do you know why people fear aging so much?” she asked.

Jack: “Because it’s the only proof time wins.”

Jeeny: “No. Because they confuse their reflection with their identity. They think the mirror tells the truth. But it only shows what’s temporary.”

Jack: “And what does the spirit see when it looks in the mirror?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t look. It witnesses.”

Jack: “That’s a pretty abstraction when your knees start hurting or your parents forget your name.”

Jeeny: “It’s not abstraction — it’s perspective. Even when memory fades, something inside us still knows love. That knowing isn’t the brain — it’s the soul remembering itself.”

Host: A single drop of rain landed on the open book, spreading a small stain across Chopra’s words. Neither moved to close it.

Jack: “So you really think we’re immune to change?”

Jeeny: “Not immune. Beyond. The spirit doesn’t resist time — it observes it.”

Jack: “And yet, time still eats everything alive.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Time doesn’t eat. It reveals. Every wrinkle, every scar — they’re just the story of what the eternal has touched.”

Jack: “That’s poetic denial.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s acceptance without surrender.”

Host: The rain began to fall in earnest now — not heavy, just enough to blur the city lights into watercolor. Jeeny tilted her face upward, letting the droplets fall across her skin.

Jack watched her, something between curiosity and envy flickering in his expression.

Jack: “You really don’t fear death, do you?”

Jeeny: “Not death. Forgetting. But death doesn’t erase — it transforms.”

Jack: “That sounds like the kind of thing people say when they’re scared.”

Jeeny: “Or when they’ve already made peace.”

Host: The rain drummed softly on the metal railings, rhythmic, meditative. The two of them stood there — two silhouettes in a world that wouldn’t stop shifting — talking about permanence as if it were a thing you could hold.

Jeeny: “You know what I think aging really is? The universe teaching us how to let go gracefully.”

Jack: “And sickness?”

Jeeny: “A reminder that the body’s not the boss.”

Jack: “And death?”

Jeeny: “The moment when the observer steps out of the frame.”

Jack: “And the frame just… stays here, empty?”

Jeeny: [nodding] “Yes. And the seer moves on — the same way the sea moves even when the waves fall.”

Host: Jack took a long breath, the kind that sounds like both defiance and surrender. The city below shimmered — a living organism of impermanence.

Jack: “So, you’re saying there’s a part of us untouched by all this?”

Jeeny: “There has to be. Otherwise, who’s watching?”

Jack: [smirking] “Maybe no one is. Maybe consciousness is just the brain narrating its own ending.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re here — arguing about eternity as if something inside you already suspects it’s true.”

Host: The rain eased, tapering into a mist. The sky had gone deep purple, and the city pulsed below like a heartbeat seen from above.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his expression softer now, the fight in his tone dimming.

Jack: “You know, if the spirit really is eternal, then why do we cling to things that end?”

Jeeny: “Because we’re built to love what passes — it’s how eternity learns tenderness.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous kind of faith.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t safety. It’s surrender to the unseen.”

Jack: “You ever get tired of surrendering?”

Jeeny: “Only when I forget who’s watching.”

Host: She turned toward him, her eyes catching the faintest glint of city light — warm, alive, certain.

Jack: “So, the seer never ages. Never dies.”

Jeeny: “No. It just changes form — like light bending through water.”

Jack: “And we’re supposed to find comfort in that?”

Jeeny: “Not comfort — courage.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The book on the bench had soaked through, the ink running slightly, blurring the edges of Chopra’s words — as if they too were melting into the eternal.

Jeeny picked it up gently, closed it, and looked out over the city.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe the reason we fear change is because we’ve mistaken identity for permanence. But what if the real miracle isn’t that we exist — it’s that we’re aware of existing, even for a moment?”

Jack: “And you think that moment is enough to call us eternal?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because awareness has no edges. You can’t measure the infinite by its reflection.”

Jack: [quietly] “Then maybe dying isn’t the end.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “It’s just the scenery changing again.”

Host: A faint breeze passed through, lifting her hair. Jack looked out into the fog, and for the first time, he didn’t flinch from the idea of disappearance — only from the beauty of it.

Below, the city pulsed — fleeting, fragile, alive. Above, the stars began to pierce through the clouds, one by one — eternal, unhurried, watching.

And between those two worlds — the temporary and the timeless — two human souls sat quietly, suspended in understanding.

For in that moment, Jack realized what Jeeny had always known:

That the body is the stage, the world is the set, and time is the curtain.
But the actor — the seer — never leaves.

He only bows,
and continues elsewhere,
bathed in the light of eternal being.