Running to Infinity

People say after death, one goes to paradise.
They go to the worst of all fates.
They sleep forever.
They relive their life, continuously.
There are some who claim you come back, except in someone else.
Are you still yourself?
With so many you’s inside?
Over and over.

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Children stood around him, eyes widening like lakes during a heavy rain. They reflected the firelight onto his shaking fingers - it was almost as if a piece of himself had jumped out of the stones.

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He looked over at the orphans cowered in the corner, as if they’d never seen fire before.

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The Maya were legendary for people like him.
Lover of wisdom. That’s what he was called.
The person shouting through the emptiness, the space in between. He was seeking, making sense of the things they did not yet understand. He taught, he spread his wisdom, knowledge of consciousness, profound awareness. Knowing, and learning and reaching out in every direction.
The simplicity of life was lost. No longer did he play with fire, he searched for meaning in the flame.
Some great purpose.
(Could he ever just disappear?)

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Living in the Mayan city was like living in the mind of a philosopher. Infinites were buried away in the dust, and it was odd how he knew exactly where to look.

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When plague sunk its claws into the village, they’re illness stained eyes immediately turned to him, the wanderer. He was neither old nor young, neither tall nor short, and his figure remained un- hunched by the crippling sickness.
He needed to suffer as they did.
He cried out within his funeral pyre, something about infinity, something about the first sparks. When finally (finally) The light drained from his eyes, they turned to glass - only reflecting the surrounding flames.
The satisfaction came easier to the villagers, now that the screams had faded.
“He was a sorcerer, got what he deserved.”

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The fire burned, and just for a moment, smoke turned into something more - a face he had not seen, but was yet so familiar, came and went in the blink of an eye.

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The path of a Japanese warrior was wrought with honor.
The path, the way - that’s what he was seeking.
A sword, not so much a weapon as a friend.
Metal, slowly, ever so elegantly, drawn out of a burning heat, pounded, repeated - made into something of use, something of value.
He told stories to his comrades, myths that were really memories, facts, the past.
The beginning of fire, seeking out other worlds, the feel of flames grasping at his feet, they came to him in dreams, and in the dying eyes of his enemies.
He forgot.
He not only fought for others, but fought fearfully yet fearlessly for himself - for his well being, an undying spirit.

A spirit left undead even after the moment he had hit the ground.

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Dark hair, a sword held high - eyes alight with battle, the man flowed easily out of his paintbrush. Familiarity hit him like a wave, staring at this man he’d never met before.

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The boys around him shook, but he was as steady as the surrounding trees, remembering training he had never received (not from them, not in this life)
He didn’t tell the stories, he left them inside him, forgetting and suppressing them into a storm cloud.
How could he tell these men (boys, infants) what it felt like to be consumed by fire, the feel of slicing someones breathing body in half, feeling their life seep into your own.
He was at home on the battlefield - as if he had been born for the revolution.

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Through the haze of drink came gunfire. This time, he ran away from the flashbacks.


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They all ran, screamed, fought aware of the futility, yet unable to stop, unable to run away from a battle already lost. He sat on his horse, alert. His bow hung limp at his side, more a part of him than the soldiers guns could hope to be. It was not his friend as the sword had been, but an extension of his arm.
The memories were assaulting him, a tidal wave in the fury of battle, and he could feel everything falling down around him.
It was over.
He watched as the battlefield turned from red to white. Not wanting to witness the final stand, he turned around and began to retreat, feeling the bullet before it hit him, right between the shoulderblades. His bow and arrow hit the ground, with barely a whisper.

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A foods from around the world festival, meant to induce cultural unity, instead invoking a feeling of alienation.
The announcer spoke up, “And here we have a Native American dish…” He grabbed a plateful. The first bite tasted like home.

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The people came like the villagers before them, instead begging for help- coughing, bleeding, dying.
He couldn’t always save them. The dying were painful reminders of battles he didn’t want to recall. Words spoken years before, words remembered only to be forgotten again.
He prepared the occasional herb potion over the open fire and it was never as spectacular as the first time.
He always tried keep them alive, keep them out of the cycle.
If only he could do the same for himself.

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The heart rate monitor flattened out into a steady, high pitch. The single death hit him like the thousands before it, and he shook his head at the dreams mixing with reality.

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Memories were more frequent the further away from Earth he got, swirling around his head like a tornado. Debris littered his mind, and he continued into the infinity that he’d searched for so many years ago.
Commander Michaels was piloting when it happened. Fuel was gone, they were alone. No chance of rescue.
Starving to death allowed time for everything to come back slowly, and dying was like lighting the first fire, terrifying and then beautiful.

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“The ship was lost 40 years ago. it is presumed that the two crew members died in the accident…” He wasn’t quite sure why he began to cry.

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He surrounded himself with flowers - learned their meanings, sold them off. Bouquets of true love - of friendship, wisdom, and innocence. He never remembered. He didn’t have to.

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The words climbed out of his pen, arranging themselves into a daisy- chain.

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They joined hands and looked at each other fearfully. He couldn’t jump alone, neither could she. They were victims of circumstance, yet somehow, it felt like fate.
“So this is it?”
It was the worst one, of all the deaths he had experienced. The choice, the lack of choice.
“How old are you?”
He stopped to think. For a moment he wasn’t sure, having lived many lives, many years, so many more to come.
“Too young.”
She nodded, tears building in her eyes.
The building they were standing on was burning. Smoke billowed into space as they dove - free-falling into empty atmosphere, hand in hand.

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The man flew off the edge (was it too much to hope for abyss?), and for a moment, he remembered.

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He lived like a symphony of all his lives.
He taught, told stories of the lives he had made so many years ago. He finally became all that he ever was. He discovered, taught about things that were so finite, yet so infinite.
He changed them, leaving an ongoing legacy - a handprint in the cement of their minds.

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The barrel finally burst - water coming out in fountains, filling the tub he had spent so long trying to fill.

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He wandered seemingly endlessly across what was now a littered, barren wasteland. Some had fled - the rest had died. Could he really be the last one?
It couldn’t be over yet.
It couldn’t.
The temperature was getting more and more unbearable by the minute. He was preparing - preparing for what though?
It was almost as if he was waiting to die.
They stood around him; echoes. The teacher, the healer, the philosopher. The first and the last man stood hand in hand.
He was no longer alone on the earth.
“All these years… All these people… It could go on, right? Revert back, start over? It’s got potential for a… Story…”
He trailed off, glancing at the brightening sky.
He grinned and disappeared into infinity.

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He remembered what it was like to take his first breath.

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People say after death, one goes to paradise.
They go to the worst of all fates.
They sleep forever.
They relive their life, continuously.
There are some who claim you come back, except in someone else.
You live forever, immortal.
Just as you think the cycle ends.
You’re alive again.
Hardly older than a moment.
But more ancient than time itself.