"Children have neither a past nor a future. Thus they enjoy the present, which seldom happens to us"

Children move through time with a lighter grip. Their attention is not tugged backward by a dense archive of regrets, nor pulled forward by elaborate contingencies. Because their sense of narrative is still forming, their energy settles more easily into what is happening now: the texture of sand, the taste of an apple, the drama of a passing cloud. Enjoyment, for them, is not scheduled; it is discovered.

Adults, by contrast, carry the weight of memory and the burden of foresight. These capacities shape identity and enable responsibility, but they also fragment presence. We replay what went wrong, pre-rehearse what might go wrong, and measure the moment for its utility to a future self. The present becomes a corridor to somewhere else, a mere staging area for outcomes. Pleasure thins into anticipation; meaning is deferred.

Children’s play offers a counterexample. In play, time dilates. The task at hand, building a fort, drawing a dragon, absorbs attention completely. Psychologists call this absorption “flow,” yet it is as much a posture toward existence as a mental state: curiosity without hurry, purpose without pressure, presence without self-conscious commentary. Such immediacy seldom visits adults not because it is impossible, but because accumulated plans and fears crowd the threshold.

There is no romantic denial here. Adults must remember and foresee; lives depend on it. The point is proportion. Memory and anticipation should frame the present, not eclipse it. Wisdom may involve learning the child’s secret without abandoning adult responsibilities: to let a moment be final in itself, to taste rather than to inventory, to look with fresh eyes at familiar things. The paradox is that a life oriented toward the present need not be shallow; depth is found by going fully into where one already stands. Past and future matter, but only the present can be lived.