History, with its sly grin, is always ready to remind us: “always” isn’t forever. We love to believe in the permanence of empires, of brands, of moral authorities—but the record suggests otherwise. The world’s stage is littered with the relics of those who mistook their moment for eternity.

Consider the recent tremors in the global order. Putin and Xi, once cast as supporting actors in America’s grand narrative, now write their own scripts. The United States, long the star of the show, finds itself awkwardly shuffled down the billing, watching as new alliances and ambitions redraw the map. Even Germany—byword for Gründlichkeit—has stumbled into chaos, as Merz’s parliamentary misadventures show that not even the Bundestag is immune to the entropy of the age.

The luxury sector offers its own parable. Hermès, once a supporting act to LVMH’s dominance, now takes the lead, but not before Chinese factory workers and social media sleuths have gleefully spilt the beans. That $50,000 “status symbol” bag? It might cost $400 to make; the only thing truly rare is the chutzpah required to charge the price. The curtain has been pulled back by viral videos, revealing that the emperor’s new clothes are, in fact, mass-produced, leaving the world’s luxury kraftsidioten clutching their receipts and their pearls.

And then, the Vatican. The papacy has presented itself as the world’s moral metronome for centuries, ticking away in steady, timeless rhythm. But the election of Pope Leo XIV—an American, no less—signals a shift. For all its incense and marble, the Church is not immune to the winds of change. Its power, long rooted in moral authority, now flirts with the levers of wealth and influence, investing in ESG portfolios and steering billions toward causes that mirror the zeitgeist.

Symbols change, too. Under John Paul II, the “P” on the Pope’s speed dial stood for Poland’s Lech Walesa—a hotline for hope and solidarity. Imagine now, in this shifting world, if that “P” were reassigned to Putin: the line once reserved for freedom fighters now connecting to the Kremlin. It’s a telling sign of how alliances and priorities evolve, and how even the most sacred institutions must adapt—sometimes negotiating with kraftsidioten who mistake their moment for forever.

But the most honest lesson comes not from the halls of power, but from the lived texture of a single life. I’ve watched walls crumble, mourned a child, witnessed pirates and bank robbers, seen Reagan and Gorbachev rewrite the world’s script, and sculpted castles from sand—each moment a testament to how quickly the “forever” of one era becomes the footnote of the next. Even Shakespeare, that old master of the eternal phrase, is not immune to a little petite blamage about authorship. Just last night, watching a thousand-year-old character on The Originals toss off lines with Shakespearean flair, I had to laugh: “always isn’t forever after all.” If immortals can’t keep their stories straight, what hope do the rest of us have?

Anthropology teaches us to see the world in cycles, not straight lines. The Netherlands, Spain, and Britain each had their day as superpowers, only to be overtaken by new contenders. Luxury brands rise and fall with the fickle tastes of the global elite. Even the Vatican, that bastion of “forever,” must adapt or risk irrelevance.

So let’s retire the myth of permanence. “Always” is just the latest version of “for now.” The wise adapt, the kraftsidioten double down, and history, with that sly grin, keeps the score.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. I could have chosen beautiful Bowie and the lyrics of “Changes” or George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass”, yet I chose the lyrics of Gorillaz

Windmill, windmill for the land
Turn forever, hand in hand
Take it all in on your stride
It is ticking, falling down
Love forever, love is free
Let’s turn forever, you and me
Windmill, windmill for the land
Is everybody in?