I have a sneaking suspicion
death is going to be just like
it was before birth and I
know what that’s like.
Because I can
remember having life before
I had hands and feet and a
flesh and blood body.
And I remember I didn’t like the
idea of being born. I didn’t
want to live on earth. I knew
the time spent here would be
too fleeting and yet not fleeting
enough to suit me. I saw it as a
life sentence nestled like an
egg in a rich, privileged nest. I
knew everything before I was
born and I knew I’d be sacrificing
my knowledge when I entered
this world kicking and screaming;
protesting every inch of the way.
I also knew, instinctively, that I’d
be sacrificing a whole lot more;
a lot of conveniences and comforts.
Why did I ever give in? I puzzle
over that question all the time.
What did I think I would gain
from this life that would prove
to be far more valuable than
if I had refused it?
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