A life unclear— a boy in an Amish field, his mother praying fervently, a church leader watching with that cold, unreadable certainty men have when they believe God agrees with them. When I approach, a burlap sack slips over my head— rough fibers scraping my face, the knot yanked hard against my throat. Hands bound, wrists burning under rope. I do not fear. My body remembers this. I know the sequence. I’m only here to witness— the carriage rattling like bones, the horses snorting steam, the river breathing cold before it devours me. The plunge is brutal— a fist of cold closing around my lungs. The burlap becomes stone, pulling at my skull, dragging me down through the dark churn. The weight feels ancient— like something that has drowned me before. Water forces its way into every opening, every soft place, turning my body into something helpless. Breathless. Paralyzed. Erased. Then— I rise above it, watching my body sink into the roaring water as if I’ve watched this scene a hundred times in a hundred lives. Why am I always killed? Why have I carried death like a birthmark through every incarnation? In this life I learned: fear is a jealous god— it ruins intimacy, it poisons trust. Even now, I flinch at your touch, haunted by echoes of my own murders: strangulation, drowning, and that life in the woods where abandonment left me torn apart by wolves— my death just an aftershock of being left behind. And still— I have lived longer here than in any other life, despite nearly being killed several times, my essence trying to carry out whatever curse follows me through time. So why is this one different? Why is it everyone else who dies— Mother. Father. Sister. Husband. Friends. Lovers. Animals. Everything I love taken from me. Everything. Every time. And that’s when I began to wonder if this wasn’t punishment, but endurance— the last long stretch of something ancient. This life is the final showdown. The hardest one. The one where I chose to pack every remaining lesson into a single lifetime— grief, abandonment, betrayal, love, death after death after death— because I am a very, very old soul. And I am tired. Once, on magic mushrooms, I spoke to my higher self. Not a dream, not a metaphor— a presence. She told me I was almost finished, that this was my last incarnation, that the losses were not curses but closures, and that when it ends, I get to go home— back to the family waiting just past the veil, patient and ancient as I am.
Also the setup here is great. It starts as a story that turns into a reflection about past lives. And damn. If we really do get many lives. I hope this is the last one too. I can’t do it again. And especially not when I’ll have to be obedient to a master AI
I like this song you paired here.
Also the setup here is great. It starts as a story that turns into a reflection about past lives. And damn. If we really do get many lives. I hope this is the last one too. I can’t do it again. And especially not when I’ll have to be obedient to a master AI
SERIOUSLY
And thanks ☺️
whoa, this sounds channelled...amazing, Jenn
Thanks, you!
Excellent
Thank you!🙏
You're most welcome
The Title helps pull this piece together conceptually, nice work.
Thank you 🙏