I fucked up.
It isn’t something people tell you outright. Not when you’re growing up, in school, deciding where the rest of your life will go. They don’t tell you that you can simply fuck it all up and that’s that. The end. No more second, third, eighth chances. You speed towards the end of your life and that’s just fucking it. If you aren’t already dead instead suddenly you’re 94 years old, laying in a bed in a nursing home without any family or friends to visit you, your dreams long dead, your body barely holding itself together— simply waiting to die.
The real problem is, though, that this isn’t the first life that I’ve fucked up. Not even close. I’m apparently a fucking master at fucking things up. A real hero at it even. I can count at least seven other lives that I’ve fucked up, but I’m sure there’s more, still waiting to be remembered.
I’m not sure why I seem to be Colonel fucking Fuckup. I don’t know of anyone else that’s screwed things up as amazingly as I have, time and time again. But who knows. Maybe we haven’t drifted by each other yet. Maybe they’re just better at hiding it.
Usually the memories of our past lives only turn up in abstract ways. Dreams, sometimes, but more likely things like deja vu, or a familiarity with a place, a person, an activity. Sometimes it’s just that rustling in the wind that you might notice, or the sound of the rain falling against a window, the sing song in a person’s voice, a scent that triggers a vague reminisce.
The thing is you can usually tell when a person’s already lived at least a dozen lives because they tend to notice these sorts of things a little more. They’re the ones that don’t have to listen to themselves speak as often, the ones who can contently sit and listen to the ocean, the ones that struggle a little more than usual because they already know the truth of things somewhere deep down. The artists, the dreamers, the wanderers.
It’s not that they truly know it, though. While I’ve heard of some people fully remembering their past lives I’m pretty sure they’re full of shit. The only reason I remember is because I’m currently dead, drifting along wherever the wind might take me, waiting to be reborn. This is my favorite part because I can make promises I’ll forget to keep, think on the massive amount of mistakes I’ve made, think of how I’ll do better next time. But mostly it’s my favorite time because this is when I can remember.