To Laugh At Death
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I died every night. And learned to live forever.
Dreams were important, because those told you your past lives. And like the old guy said somewhere, if you didn't learn from your past, you were just condemned to repeat it.
I wanted to live each day to my fullest. Because I knew it was over when I closed my eyes to sleep.
Each day, I had to learn everything all over again. Because I wanted to make each day last, to do something with my life, to have some satisfaction.
To find love became my final goal. Somehow, it's escaped me most of my life.
When she finally found me, we both were now writers. Before long, there was something else between us, a romantic mystery that had to be solved.
Together, our combined genius might be able to solve it. Maybe.
Is it true that "To deeply love is to laugh at death"?
The first time I died, it was so long ago, I hardly remember. Other than waking up in a hospital and not wanting to eat. Of smelling the anesthetic they'd given me as it wore off. The stink in my nose, and this stupid gown that tied in the back where I couldn't reach it - but made me move around the bed to get the knots where they didn't hurt or scratch.
That's what I remember for sure. The rest of my memories earlier than that seem to be the ones they told me I should have. Because that's they ones they had.
Those lifetime-stories came from people who called me their son. They were called parents. And they said they loved me, but I wasn't sure. If they loved me, they why did they let me die every night? And then come back the next day like nothing had happened?
But everything had happeened. This was a new world again. And only what I could recall of my reincarnations, my past lives, told me how I was supposed to act in this one.
And acting I did. I got pretty good at acting out the part I was supposed to play in every life. By remembering my earlier lifetimes and the "now-you're-supposed-to's" from those.
It was a way to get through life. In a steady calm, even pleasant at times.
To me, life was great. I loved waking up as a girl, in my own room, in a big house, with plenty to do every day. Life was an endless adventure.
Now that I was older, and on my own, life was still an adventure.
Of course, being "on my own" started early for me. Because of that car wreck. I lived because I was in the back of that station wagon, asleep with the other girls my age from the neighbor's family. I was going with them on a vacation. But we never made it.
Then woke up with my sad parents around me, who were wiping tears off their faces, but put on nice smiles for me when they saw I was awake. I could see out of both eyes now, but couldn't feel much on that side of my face. So I reached a hand up to touch it, a hand with tubes and wires attached.
I barely got a touch before someone had stood up and taken my hand away, telling me to "not touch it" and "leave it alone for now." More smiles. But I was so tired, I just tried to smile back and only made half my face go up. But the people smiled back and so I closed my eyes and turned my face over onto the half I could feel, and sank into grateful darkness again.
My old friend, the dark.
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