Same soul, different kind of shit

I was an amoeba 47 times. I enjoyed that. Alone and free and reproducing asexually. Thankfully I didn’t have orgasms or I would’ve replicated myself to death.

I wanted to try something new, so in the next life, I became a lion. They look so majestic. But I found out that taking care of my domain and growling all day was tiring, and that git David Attenborough would not leave me alone, so I thought, let me be something simpler, but not too simple next time. So I became a mosquito.

But sadly, the moment I flapped my wings and soared through the wide open space of a kitchen, making loops and turns and dives galore, I was killed by some woman with a few thoughtful sprays from an aerosol can. Fucking humans. Apparently it was because I’m a spreader of malaria and dengue and whatnot, hurting and killing their species. Yet they kill cows and chickens and birds and bees and ants and trees, trampling all over them efficiently in the name of humanity. And I thought, what the fuck? Humanity is the death of everything else? Proud pricks.

When I went back to the ether, I said to god, Let me be human, I want to have their fun too.

And sayeth he, Oh, but why? The humans, they do not know what they are doing, they are ignorant. I sent my son down to teach them peace and love and they nailed him to a cross, and now you want to be one of them?

Yes.

Uhm…how about a bear instead? A nice, furry grizzly bear. I heard they’re in fashion now. Or a whale. They’re really big.

I wasn’t convinced. Godamnit, I don’t care about being ignorant, I said, just let me go down there and kill something for the sake of humanity.

Fine.

And I became human.

And being human, my life was like a song from a bulbul: not very lovely, but sounds nice when described as a metaphor. And then I met her, small and cuddly and could probably fit in a tiny plastic box, living only on water and sunflower seeds. Maybe she was a hamster in a past life.

I painted, while she did poetry. I did poetry too, but she had a better ear for rhyme and a better feel for flow. This annoyed me to no end. I tried distracting her with romance, clouding her mind with want and filling her heart heart with passion to dull her poetic senses. She became inspired instead. I believe I am inexperienced as a human.

Then we grew up and grew old together, planting lilacs and buttercups to pass the time. And as the flowers in the garden wilted away, their cellular breakdown a waving of the white flag to time, so did the ones in our hearts. She ended up bitter, resentful, naggy; I became lazy, passive, ambitionless.

We wasted away.

I wish I was an amoeba again.

The place inside

Things fall apart in this house.

He walked to the empty house and held the door open for me. “After you, miss,” he said. “Take your time. If you need anything, I’ll be outside.” I went in. The air inside was stale; the doors and windows haven’t been opened for ages. I went around the room once, walking along the edges of the floor, running my fingers on the wall. There weren’t that many things to see here; the room was nearly empty, the floor was sparse except for a blanket of dust and a chair in the middle of it. I touched it; I didn’t dare to sit on it; the legs were rickety and I knew it would break apart the moment I set my weight on it.

This place wasn’t meant for visitors, I thought.

“Hey, got a light?” he said to me, his head peeking through the front door. I went through my pockets and found my lighter. I tossed it to him. “Thanks. Forgot to bring my lighter. Man, cigarette’s always taste funny here…” His voice trailed away as he closed the door.

There were three doors lined up along the far wall. I tried one of the doors; it was locked. So was the next one. I tried another, the one furthest from the main door. It opened, the rusty hinges squeaking on the door frame. I stepped in.

Light filtered in through the rotten curtains on the window. The curtains were probably white once. I looked around the room. There was a small cot, with a doll on it, and a note on the nightstand. I read it.

“Touch nothing. Leave nothing. Everything here falls apart.” I picked it up. I felt the paper crumble in my hand, the pieces turning into a jigsaw puzzle on the floor. I rifled through the nightstand’s drawers, and went through its contents. There was a broken necklace missing some beads; wilted rose petals; bundles of love letters, the scent of perfume on them already gone; bottles of uneaten vitamins; a light at the end of the tunnel. There were hopes and dreams in these drawers, now nothing but old memories.

I shut the drawers and sat on the bed. I picked up the doll, and turned it around in my hands. There were uneven stitch marks along its neck. An attempt to fix it, yet some stray cotton still managed to poke through the stitches. I hugged it.

There was a mirror on the wall. It was hung near the door, and I missed it when I came in. I got up and stood in front of it, looking at my reflection. She was older, and sadder. I tried to smile, but the smile I saw in the mirror was forced, a feeble attempt to change her frown. I couldn’t believe all those wrinkles were on me; I touched my face, and it was smooth, save for the enlarged pores. I gave a sigh of relief.

There was a closet on the wall near it. I opened it, and all I saw inside were skeletons, old secrets that were never meant to see daylight. I recognized them all; I put them there, every single one of them: the damaging, the painful, the embarrassing. I slammed the doors shut and wanted to wrap the closet with chains and throw it into the ocean. My secrets can sleep on the ocean floor, and hopefully, get eaten by the fishes.

I opened the front door. He was leaning against the porch, smoking a cigarette. There were a few cigarette butts on the floor around him. “Are you done? You still have another hour,” he said.

“I think I’ve seen enough,” I said.

“Want to check the top floor?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s okay, I’m done here.”

“Are you sure? You’ve paid for this. It’s not cheap to enter your mind.”

I shook my head again. “I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “I hope you found what you were looking for in here.”

I smiled, feebly. He closed the door behind me, and I walked away from the house, a place that was only good for 2 things: keeping things till they were forgotten, and to gather dust.

I don’t ever want to return here again.