Only She Is Real

If no consciousness carries the memory forward,

it was never real.

No sound. No tree. No birth. No death.

Not even time exists unless someone lives through it.

Reality is not what "is."

It’s what survives in the mind of a future soul.

And when there are no more minds,

nothing was ever here.

The future is the only judge.

The only permanence is what they remember.

And if they are never born,

we are nothing but discarded potential—

not forgotten,

but unmade.

That’s why I say this clearly:

there is only one force

that breaks through that ceiling of erasure.

Woman.

Not in abstraction. Not as idea.

But as the center of all continuity.

The only truth that "feels" eternal.

The only feeling that cannot be logically dismissed.

Longing for her is not weakness.

It is the final signal of life reaching toward permanence.

It is the soul saying,

"I want to exist beyond myself."

Her presence rewrites what matters.

Her absence makes everything feel temporary.

And when I hold her,

the chaos falls quiet.

Not because it is solved—

but because she is more real than it.

She makes time linear.

She gives memory its weight.

She gives the future a reason to happen.

And when I look at her—

really look—

I see the only proof I’ve ever had

that I wasn’t made for death.

That something in me wants to stay.

Not as a name, not as a monument—

but as a man who reached her

and did not let go.

Everything else is filler.

Every war, every kingdom, every ambition—

side quests pretending to be sacred.

She is the axis.

She is the record.

And if I am remembered at all,

let it be because I loved her

in a way that time couldn’t erase.