Fifty-fifth life.
She was a street dancer. Her spirit, which had wandered and waned through solitude, erupted into vibrant movements and rhythm on a bustling city street corner.
Dressed in colors that matched her, Fatma danced with a fervor that drew crowds. The asphalt under her feet became her stage, the city sounds her orchestra. Her movements were fluid, each step and spin telling of her soul's journey.
Her appearance was breathtaking, belonging to a human yet giving the impression of a lunar fairy. Her dark skin gleamed with health, and her eyes sparkled with life. Adorned with a crown of flowers entangled in her buoyant curls, Fatma felt truly alive, her heart pounding in sync with the beating of the drummer. The black dress she wore moved with her, flowing like ink in water, its hem and sleeves billowing around her in fluid waves.
Fatma danced spontaneously. She extended her arms toward the viewer, her hands slightly curled in a welcoming gesture. Her posture was open and unguarded.
The ginger man, picking up on her cues, responded with agility, his steps quick and sure. Together, they executed spins and curls, their coordination - their instant rapport.
Their movements became more daring, encouraging the other to take risks with jumps and wits. The crowd around them formed a shifting circle, clapping and cheering. Fatma soared as she found kindred spirits.
As they finally slowed, breathing heavily, their smiles were wide and genuine.
She faltered and then failed.
As she collapsed, the crowd's euphoria turned to horror. Helpers rushed to her side, their efforts futile. Fatma's life as a street dancer was over almost as soon as it had begun.
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It was a jubilee - one-hundredth life.
Fatma found herself reborn as a tree, standing solitary in the midst of a windswept plain. Her world was confined to the space she occupied. Her roots were deeply embedded in the cold earth, and her branches reached toward a cloud-covered sky.
She was as tall as a Kirin mountain. Her sparse leaves rustled with the whispers of the wind. Loneliness enveloped her like the fog that settled around her trunk in the early morning. Though birds occasionally perched upon her limbs, their presence was fleeting. She existed as an observer.
Soon enough, the skies cried as the clouds beneath them downpoured, each icy droplet striking against her in a way she had never experienced. The harsh winter weather was cruel. Soon, ice and snow weighed heavily on her branches, sometimes snapping them with a crack that seemed to imitate the breakage of her heart.
Her life as a tree was a drawn-out moment of stillness, a halt on her journey that felt both like an eternity and a mere instant.
The plains around her were empty, the horizon a distant line that she would never explore. As night fell, enveloping her in darkness, Fatma’s time as a tree came to a close.
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One hundred thirty-one - living as a pirate.
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Two hundred eight - the life of a lawyer.
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Three hundred eighty-one - the hardships of a grandfather working in a factory.
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Six hundred fifty-two - being in the capture of a warring enemy state.
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Eight hundred seventy-four - directing a film as an actress, Katherine Springfield.
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In her nine hundred sixty-fifth life, Fatma was reborn as a cattle - as a sheep.
Her world was now narrowed to the confines of a dusty, overcrowded feedlot. The distant horizon and glassy sky were mere backdrops to being fed and herded.
Each day melded into the next with monotony. Her body was a commodity in the eyes of her keepers. She stood for hours on end, her hooves sinking into mud that never seemed to dry, surrounded by hundreds of others who shared her fate but not her consciousness of it.
Harsh branding and breeding, the constant irritation of flies and parasites, and extreme weather conditions, from blistering heat to biting cold, without shelter or relief, ate away at her sanity. The feed, engineered for rapid growth, left her feeling perpetually bloated and uncomfortable.
Yet she ate.
She remembered snippets of her past lives, of sorrow, longing, and despair, all of which deepened her sense of loss. As Fatma grew, so did the looming inevitability of her purpose as livestock. Her life cycle was clear, marked by the weight she gained and her value at the market. Her existence was reduced to mere flesh and bone, valued only for what her physical form could provide to others.
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Nine hundred seventy-seventh life.
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She found herself in the paint-splattered shoes of an aspiring painter. Her studio was cramped - a light-filled garret in an artist's quarter.
Fatma poured her soul into her canvases, each stroke a trace of her myriad past lives, imbuing her work with an emotion that she felt certain would resonate. Yet, the art world was capricious, its gates kept by those who did not see the worlds she captured in swirls of abstract forms. Her paintings hung quietly in the corners of local cafes and occasional street fairs, admired by some but overlooked by many.
The few and far-between sales of her artwork barely covered the cost of her supplies. Each morning's bright promise often faded by evening into disillusionment as gallery owners and critics passed her over for the more fashionable and marketable art trends.
The only breaks in her routine were the visits to the art supply shop or the rare occasions when someone ventured into her studio during the community’s open studio weekends. These moments were bright spots in her life, yet they stung with the sting of empty compliments that did not translate into the support she desperately needed.
Self-doubt crept in with the shadows that stretched in the evening light. Fatma began to question her path, her talent, and even the point of reincarnation itself - was it merely to endure an endless cycle of hope and heartbreak?
Her life as a painter ended with another unsold exhibition. As she took down her paintings, her hands lingered on the canvases, tracing the lines and colors of a world that had been so vivid in her mind but had remained invisible to others.
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Nine hundred ninety-second was the number of bodies she had gone through.
Fatma found herself inhabiting the life of a corpulent lord in a commercialized megalopolis. The city was dominated by towering conglomerates and ruthless corporations, each an overlord of power and greed. These entities were the true rulers of the city, their skyscrapers like modern cathedrals worshipping the twin deities of profit and progress.
The corporations were involved in everything from advanced biotechnology to vast VR technologies, influencing every aspect of daily life. They deployed holograms and drones dancing across the skies, promoting a lifestyle of excess that filtered down to the populace, perpetuating a cycle of consumption and desire.
Fatma thought to herself, is this thing called consumerism any different than traditional religion?
People lived from paycheck to paycheck just to spend their savings on a new model of a flycar or online game currencies.
The world developed, yet the human mind stayed the same. Illusions transform, yet in the end, they all amount to self-delusion. There was even a neural interface that promised to enhance human cognition at the risk of individual freedom. And most readily agreed to it.
As ‘Lord Fatma’, his existence was encased within the walls of a vast penthouse overlooking the city. He was also fat, too fat. His days were filled with extravagant feasts, each meal a parade of rich, decadent foods that spoke more to the excesses of his lifestyle than to any real pleasure or need.
Fatma's interactions were transactional, devoid of genuine connection. His advisors, staff, and the parade of visitors were more attracted to her wealth and the power it wielded than to him. Laughter rang out in the halls but was hollow.
The city was where human connections were often as superficial as the advertisements plastered on every surface. Its ceaseless noise continued unabated as her life slipped away.
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Again and again.
Again and again.
Over and over and over again.
The cycle perpetuates.
In my thousandth life, I am a general. I freely roam through the barren lands. There are insurmountable corpses left from the armies - both of the victors and the losers.
I contemplate the value of human life.
There is value within everyone.
People are the most essential form of resource. Therein lies an infinite potential inside all of them, but that aspect is mainly rendered useless since the fact that there is a lot of sand doesn’t certify that the owner will create a beautiful castle out of it.
So, primarily, the value remains untouched and unrealized.
Just look at these soldiers below. They were once prominent - future parents, alchemists, artisans, and lords. Yet now, they amounted to nothing but fertilizers for the land they’ve fried.
They’ve served their value. Or perhaps they were depleted of their values.
What was important were their roles and the knowledge they had.
Yet now, nothing is left of them, nothing but remnants of the bygone. They’ve served their worth.
Truly, is there a chosen one? Not really. In the grand scheme of things, no person is special. We all die equally.
Death is what keeps us humane. As such, I’ve long lost my humanity.
I’ve been a man at times, at others a woman. Sometimes neither and both.
I’ve been a seeker at times, at others a keeper. Sometimes an animal, oftentimes a reaper.
I’ve been a peasant at times, at others a noble. Predominantly, always pitiful.
I’ve been a bourgeoisie at times, at others a prostitute. Such is the life of servitude, to both myself and others, for both myself and others.
Sometimes, I roamed the streets, begging for a grain of bread. Conversely, at times, I had so much money I didn’t know where to spend.
In the beginning, I despaired.
Then I started enjoying suffering as if it were some game.
As I navigated through my lives, the duration I could inhabit a single body increased - from hours to days and then to weeks.
Now, a single possession lasts for a few months.
But not only this. As my understanding of the world increases, my roles shift - from lesser to prominent. Wherever I go, I’ve started to react and adapt quickly, taking the best of the situation I am placed in.
I befriend the ones with a high standing and good abilities. It saves a lot of time and effort, and I sometimes get unexpected bonuses. There is no need to consider insignificant ones. Why be so obstinate when there are countless of them around, the ones that already have what you need?
While supporting them emotionally, I use them when the time calls for it.
Words are the cutting force of the present, and thus, one must sharpen one's blade as much as one can. While the king carries the shiniest sword, he does not personally engage in any battle.
In this game, cooperation is of the essence. Every connection is a key to unpredictable rewards. Furthermore, they may serve as a tool to discover myself. We only learn about ourselves while in contact with others.
I also try to avoid creating enemies at any cost.
These and many other things - I’ve slowly learned with each passing possession.
Yet lately, the game has been getting repetitive. There is no endangerment to my survival.
Simply put, I’ve become too good at it.
Still, I do not risk unnecessarily. To this point, I’ve never died, even once. My theory is that if my vessel dies, so will I.
For how long will this cycle last? I do not know.
How many lives have I caused to cease? Neither do I know this.
I’ve undoubtedly changed a lot. But I am still me.
At the end of it all, will I remain as Fatma? This too, I don’t know.