I was recently in Saint Augustine, Florida, and visited our country’s oldest masonry fort – Castillo de San Marcos. The structure still exudes a feeling of rugged stoicism despite being built in the late 1600s. Its walls cast out a message that discourages entrance. In spite of centuries of weathering, the fort still fulfills one of its original goals – to be intimidating. 

If I had tried to enter this place 300 years ago, I would have been greeted by a volley of muskets and cannon fire from Spanish soldiers willing to die for their empire. I would probably have never made it inside to see the barracks housing those soldiers, a treasure room, and a prison. Inside the fort was a world of order separated from a harsh and antagonistic world beyond its walls. At its construction, the fort was a marvel of engineering, a glorious demonstration of power by an empire in its prime.

And now it’s not. Today the fort is a national park, children play where gunmen would’ve stood guard, and the barrier to entry isn’t being pelted with bullets or cannonballs; it’s 15 dollars. You can walk across the bridge where soldiers of centuries past died trying to invade or to protect. You can watch a park ranger speak about the history of the walls that surround you, of the silent yet deafening narrative that is shouted by the bars on the windows and the unchanged sea just outside.

Despite the walls behind glass, the dry moats, and the view, the most awe-inspiring part of my visit was seeing a poster detailing the life of a man who gave tours of this fort in the 1830s and ’40s. Looking at it, I realized that there will come a time when today’s historians will themselves become relegated to history. That modern tour guides may, in a century or so, become part of the tour. There will be a day when the ocean of centuries past washes away the people who remember this forte, just as it washes away that which they remember.

After a while I found myself sitting on the tip of the fort, overlooking the sea below. I watched waves wash over the seashells that make up forts of both centuries past and the ones yet to be built. My little brother stood up behind me, arms outstretched, and shouted: “I am king of the world!” An ocean gust knocked him down and he muttered: “For a moment.”

This fort was built by the kings of the world, it is being toured by the rulers of the globe, and soon enough it will be forgotten by the royalty of civilization. Whether we like it or not, we are all monarchs of our world. We are here, yet to be relegated to history. We are here to build and tear down. To remember and forget. And hopefully, to always keep in mind that we are kings – if only for a moment.