In my mind, I’ve lived a hundred different lives.
I don’t know why it’s occurring to me now, but as I reach for my lighter, those words become clear. I have lived one hundred different lives.
The lighter is bright yellow, a color I’d never pick out for myself, maybe I stole it from someone, though I can’t say when. A cigarette hangs from my lips, my throat burning more than it should, but I hold on to this moment a little longer before I start my car. It’s a starry night, and I don’t remember the last time I saw one.
I’m sitting in a forest park, right in the heart of the city, perfect for watching the lights of the night.
I light the cigarette.
It’s beautifully quiet here, the kind of silence that’s rare these days. I can hear my breathing, the small cracks of branches shifting with the wind, the faint symphony of crickets. Maybe life was always meant to be like this sedated by the stillness, giving you room to listen to yourself. It’s a strange feeling, to be so alone, yet so present.
I’m almost sure I used to come here with someone, but who? In my mind, I’ve lived a hundred different lives, and it’s hard to keep track. Maybe, if I focus, I can remember a time when I was in love. But maybe that was eighty-seven lives ago.
I glance at my cigarette half of it remains.
Living so many lives has its price. The details blur together. I’ve always been a dreamer, constantly imagining new versions of myself, switching paths as easily as changing clothes, reinventing who I am.
I hear voices in the distance. I thought I was alone. It’s a couple laughter, a girl’s voice. I wonder how long they’ve been here. Oh no maybe they’re one of those couples, finding secret spots in the city to be intimate. Gross, I think. Why is that the first thing that crosses my mind? Can’t people just be in love? Where did my romanticism go? Maybe if I remembered all a hundred lives, I could answer that.
They’re getting closer. My cigarette’s nearly done. I don’t want them to think I’m staring. It’s strange I’ve lived so much, but I regret not spending more of it in love. I once promised myself I’d marry a man, have kids, live the life I saw in movies.
They pass by me. She’s beautiful her hazel eyes the color of brown sugar. For all I know, she probably tastes sweet. The man holds her hand, and I quickly turn away. I don’t want them to think I’m staring. I’ve lived a hundred lives, but I wish I had spent more of them in love.
How many more lives do I need to feel fulfilled? My past is a blur, and maybe that’s my curse living so many lives that I forget them all, never learning from them. Do other people feel that way? Maybe that’s why I’m alone. Maybe I’m the only one who’s lived a hundred lives.
The past slips away, and I wonder why. If only I had more time, more time to live these lives, to experience each moment like a couple walking by, I could remember more. Maybe I’d take a mental photograph one with more than just images, but with scents, sounds, and feelings. Then I could remember what it was like to be gentle, a hopeless romantic, more aware of what I am.
My cigarette is almost gone.
I’ve lived a hundred lives, but I’m not sure that matters anymore. I could change my path a hundred times over, see a thousand faces in the mirror it would be beautiful, the impermanence of it all. But right now, I can’t enjoy any of it. I feel like I’ve never had time to truly contemplate me, or any of the other women I used to be.
Time, I think, is just something we create. If that’s true, maybe I could live forever in this moment. Stretch it out, let it last for eternity. What a beautiful idea.
Time may just be a fabric, stitched between now and memory. Maybe I could tear it up, stitch it back together a patchwork of all the lives I’ve lived. It’s a funny thought, but it’s comforting.
I look at the last bit of my cigarette. I imagine I have three inhales left.
If I try hard enough, maybe I can make this moment this cigarette, these words, this scene last forever. Just 45 seconds left of smoke, but between now and then, there could be eternity.
Maybe that’s the photograph I always dreamed of taking.
30 seconds left.
The crickets sing, a symphony of syncopated beats. Nature’s rhythm.
20 seconds left.
I smell the earthiness of the trees, mixed with the sharp scent of smoke. The purity of the air clashes with the nicotine, but somehow, it feels perfect.
10 seconds left.
I’ll stretch these moments forever what a beautiful scene to live in.
1 second left.
