Immortal

There was a man who lived through history. A man who saw yesterday's future as it passed by him. Living through time, a part of the world yet apart from it.

He was a historian; a sage; a learned man.

Watch he did as time flowed in its endless twists and turns. Observing the changes in the river of ages that left him withered.

His timelessness was his gift. His curse.

Lives entered the world and exited in the blink of an eye. He watched them come and go. Short meaningless existences. Beings most often with little control over the paths their lives would take. A strange sight they were.

Desperately grasping at every moment of joy and satisfaction as they did, he saw them lose their puny little souls in the reverberations of the river. And wrote down their journeys he did.

Each spark presented an experience. The man, he realised the value of what he saw. Of what they lived.

Yet they did not. Engrossed as they were in their own lives, they could not possibly see what he saw. Only he understood. Only he realised it. Only he was removed enough to understand it. And all he could do was look.

The man witnessed wars break. He listened to tears and laughter. He trembled at the sight of blood and violence and shook in anticipation of joyous celebrations.

He lived with them. But he could not die with them. Among them yet removed from them.

Immortality was his curse. The source of his alienation. His loneliness. So he watched them away from the crowds and alone. Secretly fearful of growing attached to them. He did not wish to experience loss.

Detachment was the source of his sanity. His wisdom. His self.

He was a historian; a sage; a learned man. Living till the end of time.