Rebirth is a bitch
Rebirth is a bitch. It hurts like Hell and it would be quite simply the most humiliating thing that could ever happen to a person, were it not for the fact that it gets worse with each new incarnation. There is, quite frankly, nothing worse than being reborn.
What was that you said? Death? You think death must be worse? Ah, thank you, child: it’s been a long time since I even came close to smiling. No, death is easy – and it’s a pity it can’t last.
So, you’ve just died – again. It may have been quick, like a heart attack or a bullet through the head. Or it may have been miserably slow: cancer, Alzheimer, watching American Idols. Hm? No, I didn’t say that dying was fun…It’s just that being reborn is much, much worse. Do pay attention, please.
Anyway, when you die all of you gets scrunched. I don’t mean your body but your essence. Imagine a soft drink can. The can is filled with all of your memories, conscious and unconscious; all the things you tasted and saw and heard; the things and people you loved, or hated. You call this filled soft drink can your soul. Which is as good a lie as any of the other weird stuff people tell themselves. Now, imagine a fist – a very strong and hairy fist. It’s scrunching the soda can. As I said: not nice. Happily, it goes very, very quickly.
Rebirth doesn’t come with a big hairy fist. It’s much more twiddly than that; much more messy too. The newly born creature, animal or vegetable, also needs one of those soft drink cans, in order to store its essence. Only problem is, before that can happen the old can needs to be un-scrunched – and that, subjectively speaking, takes a very painful eternity. What makes this process infinitely worse yet is the fact that during the un-scrunching this twisted and pathetic soft drink can remembers all the other times that this has happened to it. So, the more incarnations you have gone through, the more insufferable the entire process becomes.
The only good thing you can say about this whole sorry system is that the victims don’t carry this information with them while they live their short lives and while they are filling those soft drink cans again and again and again.
Hm? Ah, good question, yes. The first good question, in fact. How do I know about all of this…? Well, I’m not one of you, strictly speaking. You could call me a demon, if you like. Like ‘soul’ it’s a reference you can understand – or misunderstand, to be honest. It will do though.
So, what happens was, I answered a certain classified ad: ‘Don’t be desk bound! See the world! Be your own boss…’ Etcetera, etcetera. I fell for it; oh, how I fell for it. I signed the contract, accepted all the terms – including the one that said I could not join a union, or quit…; and that’s how I became a comptroller. I work the line, so to speak. Management always want to know if all the systems are working.
So, yes, that’s me: a bloody soft drink test can.
Just like any one of you I get born again and again and again – and yes, I also die again and again and again – and get reborn again and again and again…; and because I have to report back to Management, I get to remember all the bloody and extremely painful details: all of them, yes, again and again and again and again and again… Well, you get the drift, I’m sure.
Of course, there are some small compensations. Right now, for instance, I’m swimming in a bowl, with another damn fish. Yes, I’m currently a fish. What kind of fish? How the Hell should I know? I’m inside the bloody thing, so I don’t have a clue. Fish are not born thinking, ‘Wow, I’m a halibut – how fascinating!’ What I do know is that the other fish is weird. It’s always hanging upside down, against an awful-looking bit of greenery. Don’t ask me why – and it’s almost always asleep.
Not that I care about the other fish. I am much more interested in the view – and what a view it is. It’s my mistress, I presume. The one who feeds us and talks to us, and sometimes sings to us. (When she’s not walking into walls, that is. She is incredibly beautiful and all but also rather clumsy, I’m afraid.)
She also falls off the couch, laughing like a loon, whenever she watches Borat – and she spends too much time in the gym… Well, I didn’t say she was perfect – but she comes pretty close, mind you. The most beautiful part though is that she really, really likes clothes – she’s got tons of them and she likes to put them on just for the sheer fun of wearing them and seeing how they look on her; and she does look lovely in all of them (apart from an old and tattered, red & white & polka-dotted pair of pajamas. They look awful but for one reason or the other she seems to really adore them.)
Anyway, I love looking at her, when she’s parading through the room again, in ever changing outfits (and occasionally walking into walls, or stumbling over a pair of high-heeled shoes…) Of course, the part I really enjoy is when she undresses again, to change into yet another lovely dress or, pure bliss, one of her many, many swimsuits… Like the one she’s wearing right now.
Yes, I have to admit, there are compensations for all the discomfort and all the pain that comes with being reborn – and watching my mistress in that sexy bathing suit of hers… the one she will take off again any moment now… Yes. now that’s, as they say, to die for.
Ah…! Yesss…! There she goes. That’s one shoulder strap… Encore, encore…!
But…
No, no, no, no, no…
Watch that bloody shoe box…
No…!
No, no, no, NOOOOOOO…!!!
Oh, bloody, bloody, bloody Hell! How bloody clumsy can you bloody well bloody get…??!! You broke my bloody bowl, you stupid, stupid girl…!
Ah shit…!
Here comes that hairy fist again…
Bye bye, babyyyaaaaaiiiiiiiiyyyeeeeecccchhhh…. .